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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874158">We are Two of a Kind</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragile/pseuds/fragile'>fragile</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dead by Daylight (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Danny is His Own Warning, Dark Comedy, Emotional Manipulation, Eventual Smut, Eye Trauma, First Time, Gaslighting, Horror, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Murder, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Homophobia, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Psychological Horror, Self-Harm, Semi-Public Sex, Slow Burn, Smoking, Stalking, Suicide, Swearing, Time Period: 90s, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:55:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>150,775</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25874158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragile/pseuds/fragile</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After they bury their rotting secret in the snow, the Legion decide to keep a low profile for a few months. That meant none of their usual mischief. Frank has never felt more bored and restless in his life, until he gets a call from someone claiming to know what happened that night.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Frank Morrison</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>733</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>671</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Where's Florida, Anyway?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They always say you remember every little aspect about your first time. Frank Morrison supposed that was true. It’d been three months since he killed someone and he definitely hasn’t forgotten what it felt like.</p>
<p>
Wet.</p>
<p>
It was very wet. When he thinks too long about it, he’s visited by the ghost of warm blood that splattered on his cheek, on his hands— all over his hands. His knife had gleamed under the fluorescence lights, taunting him and egging him on. That night, he hadn’t been human. He’d been a frenzy of feral anger and adrenaline. If he could take back that night, he probably would. Probably. 
</p>
<p>
They’d buried the janitor deep, deep under the snow up on Mount Ormond. The silence had been as thick of the fog that threatened to overtake them. He’d never seen his band of misfits so scared before and quite honestly, it aggravated the <i>fuck</i> out of him. Did they not trust him to take care of them? He was their leader, he’d been the one to draw first blood, and if they were caught he’d be the one in the deepest shit. So no. He made sure the hole was nice and deep, and he made sure there were no witnesses. 
</p>
<p>
Frank loved his Legion— as much as he could feel love, anyway. But he could never fully trust them, no matter how much they revered him. It just wasn’t in his nature. Nothing would stop them from going behind his back, cracking under the pressure, making up some story about how he made them do it. How he threatened to kill them if they didn’t comply.
</p>
<p>
When Susie began to cry on the car ride back, he told her to shut up because he needed to think, and it made her cry harder. Frank slowed the minivan down to a halt halfway down the mountain. The engine ticked in a metronomic rhythm. His friends looked to him, daring to be hopeful that he found a way for them to wiggle out of this latest crime. He had thought of a solution, of course, but he hated it more than he hated half his foster families.
</p>
<p>
As much as it pained him to say it: “We need to lay low for a few months.”
</p>
<p>
“What do you mean?” Julie spoke up first, even though she had known damn well what he meant. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, felt the rubber dig into his calloused palms. Stupid questions only served to make his blood boil.
</p>
<p>
“We can’t draw attention to ourselves,” Frank had explained slowly to the honor student, “Just act like the good little kids you are. Go to school and all that fun shit.” A dismissive wave of his hand. Like it was all no big deal.
</p>
<p>
“Are you kidding me?” Joey blurted out from his seat in the back. “We can’t just act like <i>nothing</i> happened.”
</p>
<p>
Frank tilted his head to look over his shoulder and met the other’s eyes with a glower. Joey must still have been in a state of shock to have spoken to him that way, so he decided to let it slide. “Nothing did happen.”
</p>
<p>
Susie had tried her best not to look relieved at his order. “Will you still hang out with us?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice from cracking. Her big blue eyes were still wet with tears. 
</p>
<p>
“I’m not dying, am I?” Frank forced a smile. No one smiled back.
</p>
<p>
“What are you going to do then?” Julie fiddled with the frayed strands of blonde over her shoulder. She had recovered much faster than their younger cohorts, but she still seemed just as troubled.
</p>
<p>
“I’ll think of something.” He had turned back to the front, twisting the key in the ignition. “My whole life doesn’t revolve around you lot, you know.”
</p><hr class=""/>
<p>

He did end up thinking of something— he got a job down at one of the only gas stations around the area. This one was on the outskirts of town which was annoying as hell, but it was the only place that would bother to hire a burnout like him. It was <i>boring.</i> Ormond was a small town— there were never any visitors and never anyone leaving. His days consisted of a full eight hours pretending to sweep and watching game shows on the tiniest television he’s ever seen. </p>
<p>
Some days the news would play. On those days he’d hang on every word waiting for the breaking news, but it never came. The snow has been their saving grace. Ormond was almost like an eternal winter— however, the body would eventually resurface. This very thought had been on his mind more often than not, as he was still plotting an out for his band of Legion. But he wasn’t afraid, Frank didn’t get afraid. He just didn’t want them to start panicking and slipping up unnecessarily. 
</p>
<p>
They had dutifully shown up to each one of his shifts after class, staying a few hours to keep him company and update him on all the exciting going ons of Ormond High.
</p>
<p>
“Tammy went back to Steven,” Julie had sneered as she opened up an unpaid bag of chips, “That was their fifth breakup. Can’t she get it through her mind that he’s just playing with her?” Frank didn’t know who any of those people were or why he should care, but he replied with a roll of his eyes and a:
</p>
<p>
“I can believe it. She’s an idiot.”
</p>
<p>
What Frank couldn’t believe was how easily the others had slipped back under the monotonous facade of a normal life. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Susie smile so damn much. It was actually a little disappointing if he was being honest. One of the reasons he liked them so much was because they were all different from the other nameless faces that he saw around town. Sure, he had told them to act inconspicuously, but he hadn’t planned on them becoming so <i>boring.</i>
</p>
<p>
That seemed to be the word of the day.
</p>
<p>
Frank’s newest obsession on this particular shift was a chewed-on pencil he’d found near the trash can. He had already spent half his shift using the graphite to carve different symbols into the wooden countertop. To the average eye, the markings were probably nonsensical. To him, they were the next Picasso. The bite marks gave the pencil ridges that made it more comfortable to hold, like the hilt of his knife. It wasn’t the same thing, but it’d have to do. 
</p>
<p>
“S-should you be doing that?”
</p>
<p>
Frank nearly leaps out of his skin, the pencil clattering as it falls from his hand and onto the counter. “Jesus fuck!” He had been so engrossed with his work, he hadn’t heard anyone come in. A hand runs through his dirty blonde locks, a habit he’s picked up as of late. “Uh sorry, didn’t hear ya.”
</p>
<p>
He glances towards the clock on the wall. It was roughly ten. He hadn’t even noticed, but the sunlight had long faded and only the flickering, dim neon of the gas sign illuminated the outside. Frank turns his attention to his first customer of the day, sizing him up. He could easily kick his ass if worse came to shove.
</p>
<p>
The man before him is slightly hunched over, black hair slicked back with gel, a hand fiddling nervously with his horned-rimmed glasses. Frank crinkles his nose at the smell of body spray that clung to his plaid shirt that appeared a size too big. “It’s a-alright, uh..”
</p>
<p>
His shirt was messily tucked into khaki pants, and Frank thought it was the ugliest fashion choice he’s ever seen in his life. <i>Just pick one or the other.</i> He thinks, irritably. <i>Are you tucking in your shirt or not?</i>
</p>
<p>
Frank realizes that the man had finished speaking. “Huh?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh!” The man nibbles his lower lip. “I uh, said… I’m just paying for gas?”
</p>
<p>
<i>No shit.</i> Why else would he be out in the middle of nowhere? “Sure,” Frank says with a half-shrug. “Which pump?”
</p>
<p>
“Which… pump?” The man looks more and more frazzled with each sentence.
</p>
<p>
“You from outta town?”
</p>
<p>
“Out of country,” the man clarifies as if Frank legitimately cared, “From Florida.”
</p>
<p>
“Fancy.” Frank leans back against the wall. “Here in Mapleland, I put in your gas for you. So you have to choose which pump and what kind you want.” He points above him as if it took great effort. The man’s eyes follow his movement to see a sloppily-written sign that went into all the great intricacies of the different fuels.
</p>
<p>
“I.. Um, I guess the pump I parked in front of?” The man offers him a weak smile. “And premium?” Frank holds back his desire to laugh. None of it actually <i>mattered.</i> They were all the same, but he was happy to take more of this loser’s money than necessary. They made a quick transaction and stepped outside.
</p>
<p>
The man shivers against the frigid Ormond air. Frank only knew three states: California, Texas, and New York. He figures Florida must be one of the warmer states, given how the man’s teeth keep chattering. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his khakis. “You’re definitely underdressed,” Frank says in a way that was not meant to start a conversation, as he grabs the nozzle and begins his work.
</p>
<p>
“Aha... yeah.” The man looks him up and down. Frank was in a simple black shirt and camouflaged jeans. “But you? Y-you’re not cold?”
</p>
<p>
Frank answers with a dismissive grunt.
</p>
<p>
The man didn’t seem to get the hint. “I would have packed better, b-but I came out here on really short notice.” Frank really hopes he isn’t about to get his full life story. People tended to be drawn to him like moths to a flickering light, and they ended up telling him more about themselves than he ever really cared to know.
</p>
<p>
“That sucks,” Frank keeps his gaze steady on the meter.
</p>
<p>
“Yeah…” The man lets out a little sigh and awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “It’s just, m-my boss wanted me to cover this murder…”
</p>
<p>
It was like the Ormond air had penetrated his skin and froze his blood. 
</p>
<p>
What murder? <i>Their</i> murder? But that was impossible. It’s true that he hadn’t watched the news today, but his Legion would have told him if something had sprung up. Everything had been perfectly normal today. The same dull routine. So there was no way that it could be that stupid janitor. No one had seen them do it. No one ever went up to the lodge. There was no way. No fucking way. And there was no way the murder of some old guy was a big enough deal to have someone from the states show up? To what? Investigate it? Was there some other murder he hadn’t heard of? Was this guy just passing through? Maybe he was off to some other town and was just using Ormond as a shortcut. That didn’t make sense. Ormond was a one way in, one way out kind of place and
</p>
<p>
“Um, hey? That’s more gas than I paid for…” 
</p>
<p>
The man’s words break his train of thought. “Huh? Shit.” He pulls the nozzle out unceremoniously, some of the fuel leaking out of it. The man’s eyes fall downwards, watching the black droplet collide with the asphalt. Frank scrambles for words: “Sounds fun.”
</p>
<p>
The man gives him a cross look. “Murder isn’t fun. A man died.”
</p>
<p>
He fights the urge to roll his eyes. “When?” Frank asks coolly.
</p>
<p>
“A few weeks ago, they think... T-they found him up in the mountains...”
</p>
<p>
  <i>Oh.</i>
</p>
<p>
“Funny they send you here.” Frank rushes to finish up his work. “Aren’t there enough murders for you to cover down in Florida?”
</p>
<p>
The man ponders his words for a moment before he shrugs. “I guess this one is special.”
</p>
<p>
Was it his imagination, or did the man’s lips twitch? Whatever. Frank needs him out of here and he needs him out fast. He has to call his Legion before they do anything stupid. With quick haste, he closes the gas cap and gives him a nod. “You’re good to go.”
</p>
<p>
The man seems impressed. “That was quick!”
</p>
<p>
“I’ve been doing this a long time,” Frank pats the black sedan and pushes himself away from it. It’s a lie, but this shit wasn’t rocket science either. “That’s all, right?”
</p>
<p>
“Guess so,” the man gives him a tiny smile. “T-thank you.” He begins walking to his car, but stops abruptly in his tracks. “Oh! Nearly forgot…” He takes out his wallet and briefly fumbles with it. Frank perks up— just for a moment— but instantly turns stone-faced as he’s handed a card instead.
</p>
<p>
It read: <i>Jed Olsen, Roseville Gazette,</i> followed by a string of numbers.</p>
<p>
“If you find anything out, free feel to call!” Jed grimaces at his slip up, “Ah, feel free to call.”
</p>
<p>
<i>Fat chance in hell.</i> But at this point, he’d do just about anything to get this loser out of here. He pockets the card. “Sure.”
</p>
<p>
Jed offers him one last smile and steps inside of his car. Frank watches as he drives off towards the sleepy mountain town, the car growing smaller and smaller as it was engulfed by the darkness of the night. 
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">whew i haven't written a single fanfiction in like... what? fourteen years? but by god this ship needs more content SO HERE I AM. big shoutout to my beta reader megidola, i stan you hardcore &lt;3</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted"><b>edit 02.24.2021:</b> hi there !! if you're reading this after it's already completed— just know that i <i>love</i> hearing people's reactions to events in the story! if you're worried that you might be bothering me with a comment even if it's ten years later lol, i promise that can't be further from the case! either way, i really hope you enjoy the read. :")</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Frosted Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
Frank is a thunderstorm of emotion as he reenters the building. He walks with sheer purpose, snagging the television remote from one of the drawers and pressing down on the red button. The television flickers as if afraid of him. For a second, nothing happens. He curses loudly and he presses down harder. The power symbol sears itself into his skin and leaves an imprint as the television complies: 
</p>
<p>
On the screen is the local news lady. Her name isn’t essential. What matters is where she is, what she’s saying. Behind her is a backdrop that was all too familiar to him- the rotting oak of the decrypted lodge Legion made their home. Hung caution tape could be seen off-screen. “It’s been a few hours since the body of a man who police are calling ‘The Frosted Man,’ has been found near the peak of Mount Ormond,” she informs, her pale grey eyes boring into his. Like she’s speaking straight to him. “The police have removed the body from the premises so it can be checked more thoroughly. They believe the multiple stab wounds throughout his body to be the cause of his demise.”
</p>
<p>
Demise. There was a finality to that word. Yeah, he was there, yeah, he saw the man’s life leave his eyes, and yet… He steps closer to the television, fascinated. Seeing an outsider talking about their crime made the whole thing feel so much more real. He should be nervous, but all he feels is a quiet sense of power coursing through his veins. They still didn’t know the janitor’s identity, that was a good sign. He’s so close to the screen that he can see the fear hidden deep in her eyes. That was because of <i>them.</i> The Legion is what made her afraid. 
</p>
<p>
At the thought of his friends, a sudden rage surges through him. Why hadn’t they bothered to call him? There was no way they didn’t know about this already, and they usually fought amongst one another like hungry wolves to share something with Frank. He tears his eyes off from the screen and moves to the off-white office phone that rested beside the register. He knows all their numbers by heart, of course, and rings up Julie first. His ear is pressed tightly against the phone, but in place of a dial tone, there is only silence.</p>
<p>He pulls the receiver away from him, his eyebrows furrowing. He hangs up, dialing Joey’s number instead. Once more, there’s an almost eerie silence. Frank slams the phone down, crouches, and eyes the telephone wire critically. He curls his finger around it, giving an experimental tug. It doesn’t provide any type of resistance and slithers towards him. His eyes widen as the end of it shows frazzled red, green, and blue wires. 
</p>
<p>
It's as if they’d been cut.
</p>
<p>
<i>“What the fuck?”</i> He whispers, his thumb brushing against the strands with uncharacteristic gentleness. His boss wouldn’t fuss too much about the scarred counter, but he’d better not accuse Frank of messing with the phone. He heaves a sigh, staring up at the clock. Time had barely passed at all. Fuck it. If he was already going to be in trouble, then what was the point of staying here tonight? He has much more important things to deal with. Besides, what were the odds some other American decided to show up for gas?
</p><hr class=""/>
<p>
He goes to Julie first. Frank knows that his main cohort would be the most rational, and <i>well…</i> He wasn’t the type of person to pick favorites, but there was something about her that always stood out to him. Her fierce independence? Her studious nature? Frank wasn’t sure. When he first saw her at one of her infamous house parties, he couldn’t stop staring. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall made of gold, her hoop earrings twinkled under the lights, her green eyes piercing. They had lingered in his mind the entire night.
</p>
<p>
They ‘dated’ for a few months— dated in quotations because they never made it official. If Julie had ever wanted them to be something more, she never voiced it. That was fine with him. They weren’t exclusive, and Frank didn’t like labels anyway. However, once he was expelled, the late-night visits with lazy makeout sessions and their solo trips to Mount Ormond where they’d stare up at the sky and talk about nothing for hours stopped. Neither of them had created the distance between them first; it just <i>happened.</i>
</p>
<p>
Frank turns on her street. She lived in what could be considered the ‘rich part of town,’  except Ormond wasn’t exactly the place where rich people settled down, so in the grand scheme of things— she wasn’t that well-off either. Apparently, she’d been the envy of every kid back in middle school because she had a fenced two-story house and a pool. He understood why Julie hated it so much. The surrounding houses all looked the same, right down to the same beige brick and rounded front door. The only reason Frank knew hers by heart was thanks to a lot of trial and error. 
</p>
<p>
He parks a few houses down, under the faint yellow gleam of a streetlight. From where he is, he notices that her room light was still on. After shrugging on his varsity jacket, he steps out. Frank doesn’t try the front door— her parents despised him, and he’d probably get it slammed in his face. Not that he blamed them. In their eyes, he was the one who corrupted their poor, innocent little girl. Once a good obedient student, now a wild-child who stayed out past curfew and went to parties. <i>How horrible!</i> Wait ‘till they learned she wasn’t a virgin.
</p>
<p>
Jumping her fence was second nature to him; he lands in her backyard with a quiet grunt. Frank did have to thank Mrs. Kostenko one day though— she was a huge gardening freak. The rose-filled trellis below Julie’s room made it so, so easy for Frank. 
</p>
<p>
He scales it with ease and peers into the window and uh. <i>Why the fuck</i> were Joey and Susie already there? The girls laid on her bed while Joey lounged on the floor. They hadn’t noticed their leader, too engrossed in their little conversation. Frank scowls and rasps his knuckles against the glass louder than he should have.</p>
<p>
Their heads turn immediately, relief on their faces— though none of them had looked particularly frightened. The pink-haired girl flies off the bed. Susie lifts the window all the way up for him, and he <i>accidentally</i> kicks her in the arm as he climbs in feet-first. Frank offers no apology. She rubs the spot tenderly, moving aside for him. Gone was her excited smile, replaced by nervousness. 
</p>
<p>
“Frank!” Julie exclaims as she and Joey had both jumped to their feet. Frank brushes off some of the dirt that got on his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re—”
</p>
<p>
“So, what is this?” Frank cuts in, cold. “Some sort of top-secret meeting?”
</p>
<p>
“No!” Joey’s eyes are wide. “Of course not, Frank! We were waiting for you!”
</p>
<p>
“That’s cool,” Frank bobs his head, nonchalantly, as he looks around the room. Nothing in it had changed since he’d been here last, but he shoves away any lingering sense of nostalgia. The walls were an ugly pale pink and stereotypically plastered with posters of her celebrity crushes. He knew she didn’t actually care about any of them; it was just purposefully decorated so it’d placate her parents. “Very cool.” 
</p>
<p>
Joey side steps towards Julie, ready to stop their leader in case he tried something reckless. The air is almost suffocating, but Frank heeds it no mind. He shoves his fists into his pockets and meets Julie’s eyes. “I guess you guys heard the news?”
</p>
<p>
“Yeah,” Julie replies, crossing her arms. She wasn’t like their younger friends— if she was ever scared of Frank, she never made it known. It was one of the reasons he liked her. But not right now.
</p>
<p>
“So why the <i>fuck</i> am I the last to know while you lot have a slumber party?” He aimlessly gestures to the three of them.
</p>
<p>
“We couldn’t reach you, so I asked Sus and Joey to come over.” Her gaze never wavered. “We needed to think of what we were going to do while we waited for you.”
</p>
<p>
“You aren’t the leader here, Jules,” Frank snaps, almost amazed that she had the balls to make some sort of plan <i>without</i> him. “You can’t just do these things without me.”
</p>
<p>
“I’m sorry,” Julie apologizes. It’s kind of half-assed, but getting into a fight with his Legion isn’t why he showed up. He begrudgingly accepts it.
</p>
<p>
“Just make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
</p>
<p>
“W-we tried to call you at work, Frank,” Susie explains, timidly. Ever the peacemaker, Susie. She always tried her best to quell her leader’s temper. “But your phone wasn’t working or something.” 
</p>
<p>
At the memory of the damaged work phone, Frank makes his way to Julie’s desk and slumps into her chair. His friends visibly relax, sitting in a way that they surround him like he’s some sort of prophet. “Oh yeah, thanks for that too.” He rests his cheek against his knuckles. “That was a real funny joke. My boss is gonna take it out of <i>my</i> paycheck.”
</p>
<p>
The three of them glance at one another, causing Frank to roll his eyes. “Well, don’t act so fucking innocent.”
</p>
<p>
“What are you talking about?” Joey asks with an almost convincingly confused frown on his face.
</p>
<p>
Frank barks out a laugh. “The phone, obviously.”
</p>
<p>
Joey pauses, before delicately pressing: “What about it?”</p>
<p>
“Why didn’t it work?” Susie chimes in, fiddling with the sleeves of her gray sweater.
</p>
<p>
“It’s…” Frank trails off, the irritation prickling his skin like a hot needle. This… This was going to absolutely bumfuck, wasn’t it? They were just going to keep playing stupid. It wasn’t like he’d ever let anyone else behind the counter during his shifts. So who else could it be? <i>Casper the Friendly Fucking Ghost?</i>
</p>
<p>
This kind of prank wasn’t like his Legion at all. At least, Frank was never the butt of them for <i>obvious</i> reasons. Maybe since they haven’t been hanging out as often, they’ve forgotten their place. Maybe they’re just burning off some pent-up energy or acting up because they were scared. How should he know? He’s not a shrink. His friends were staring at him with wide eyes, but not like deers in headlights. More like he was some animal at the zoo, behind some glass. A wild curiosity— what on earth was Frank Morrison going to do next?
</p>
<p>
He decides to be nice. Just this once. 
</p>
<p>
Instead of pressing the issue, he digs into the right pocket of his jacket. Pulls out a cigarette and blue plastic lighter. After all, Julie hated it when he smoked inside.
</p>
<p>
<i>“Frank!”</i> She hisses right on cue, <i>“My parents are home, they’re gonna smell the smoke!”</i>
</p>
<p>
He ignores her, lighting it up and pressing the stick in between his lips. One deep drag as he leans back. Frank had his first cigarette at eleven, given to him by one of his old foster dads in an attempt to shut him up. He used to go through packs like it was candy, but over the years lost his enjoyment of it. He weaned himself off it, only smoking three or four darts a day now. The smoke stopped hurting his lungs a long time ago. The nicotine was no longer fun or a way to keep him sedated. It was just a habit now, as dull as any other.</p>
<p>
“Whatever. What were you guys so busy chattin’ about?”
</p>
<p>
Julie lets out an exaggerated, defeated sigh and flops back on her bed. “The news, obviously.”
</p>
<p>
“I thought we’d have more time,” Frank admits, reluctant to even imply that he might have been wrong. “The snow hasn’t even started to melt yet.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s the thing.” Joey’s dark eyes lifted upwards to meet his. “The body wasn’t… covered. At all.”
</p>
<p>
Frank narrows his eyes, flicking the ash onto his shoe. “What?”
</p>
<p>
“The body was out. In the open. The park ranger who discovered it said that it was like the killer <i>wanted</i> him to find it.”
</p>
<p>
“That’s impossible.” Frank snorts. “We were all there. We dug until we couldn’t anymore.”
</p>
<p>
Joey shakes his head. “They didn’t show it, but the cops said the body looked like it had dried out in the mountain air for a while. What was it they said...”
</p>
<p>
Susie suddenly looks sick to her stomach. “They said the body was dehydrated and grey, with ice clinging to him. And he stank so bad the whole lodge smells like death.”
</p>
<p>
Frank can’t help but laugh at the image. “So what? He looks like dried up beef jerky?” Julie shoots him an annoyed look, and he clears his throat. “If he’s all fucked up… How can they tell he was stabbed?”
</p>
<p>
“We don’t know yet,” Julie says, “But we’re going to keep laying low just like you said.”
</p>
<p>
Frank takes another drag of his cigarette. Thinking. “We could always leave as soon as the smoke blows over. We can take Joey’s mom’s van and leave.”
</p>
<p>
That catches all of their attention. His Legion had all confessed to him individually that it was their dream to leave Ormond, to go off to the real world and experience something other than snow and sitting in parking lots to pass the time. Joey doesn’t even look pissed that Frank offered up his mom’s car. Then again, when had he ever seen the other boy angry?
</p>
<p>
“We’d need money.” There’s an excitement to Julie’s tone that he hadn’t heard in a long time. “For hotels and food.”
</p>
<p>
“Sure.” Frank nods. “I’m working, aren't I? If we all find part-time gigs, we’d have enough to get out of here in a few months.”
</p>
<p>
Susie deflates. “I… I can’t…”
</p>
<p>
“I know,” Frank says with a warmth only reserved for her, “Your parents don’t want you to work, but it’s cool. With the three of us, we can make more than enough.”
</p>
<p>
Susie smiles at that before her pretty blue eyes light up with inspiration. She leaps up, going to her best friend’s closet and rummaging around. Frank takes another puff as he watches with faint interest.
</p>
<p>
“What are you doing?” Julie giggles, leaning forward to get a better look.
</p>
<p>
“Hang on!” Susie answers back, “I know you still have it here!”
</p>
<p>
She emerges with a glass jar that contains a single paperclip and a black permanent marker. She jiggles the jar, the paperclip bouncing around. When her friends don’t seem to get it, her smile gets so big it reveals her dopey braces. “Our Get-Outta-Ormond Fund!” She announces proudly, quickly marking up the jar with its new name and a smiley face.
</p>
<p>
“That’s brilliant, Sus!” Joey exclaims, causing her to beam harder. She hands the jar to Frank.
</p>
<p>
“You have to be the one who takes care of it,” Susie says with a wink, “As the leader and all.” <i>Christ.</i> Her happiness is so embarrassingly contagious that Frank finds himself smiling right back.
</p>
<p>
“Alright then,” Frank burns out the cigarette on a desk coaster. “I promise to keep it safe and sound.”
</p>
<p>
The very idea of escape pushes the murder straight out of the teenagers’ heads. When the conversation shifts to where they’d live, Frank jokingly brings up Florida. They laugh, and it’s like everything’s alright again. It’s a few hours later when Mrs. Kostenko knocks on the door and tells them it’s a school night and it’s time to go. Joey and Susie leave through the front door, thanking her parents for their hospitality.
</p>
<p>
Frank lingers a moment longer. It’s just him and Jules, like old times. Frank watches her a little longer than he should, and when she cocks her head playfully and asks, “what?” he gives an innocent little, “oh, nothing.”
</p>
<p>
He begins his descent down the window, carefully holding onto his newest possession. “Sleep tight, loser,” he calls to her teasingly. 
</p>
<p>
Julie grins down at him. It’s that same bashful look from the party. “Good night.”
</p>
<p>
Frank slides into his car and looks back to her window. As if embarrassed to be caught staring, she flips him off. A quick close of the window and she’s out of sight. He chuckles and gives a little shake of his head. 
</p>
<p>
He’s about to drive off when he notices a post-it note stuck to his rearview mirror. Frank’s jaw clenches and his shoulders tighten involuntarily. His eyes slowly comb his field of vision with great suspicion.
</p>
<p>
There’s nothing but an empty street.
</p>
<p>
He slowly peels the note off like it’s deadly just to touch. Rereads it. Once, twice, three more times. He doesn’t recognize the handwriting, which was neat and done as if the culprit had all the time in the world:
</p>
<p>
<i>Don’t become boring too.</i></p>
<p>
<i>Love, GF</i>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">I'm going to do my best to update this fic every Monday, so keep an eye out! :) I've been planning out the story and it might be longer than I first thought, so I apologize in advance. Thank you always to my lovely beta reader Megidola ❤</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Nadir</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>“Morrison! Morrison!”</i>
</p><p>
Frank jolts awake at the sound of his name being yelled and loud bangs on his door. The early rays of the sun from his window pours into his room, basking it in its glow. He chooses to ignore his foster dad by hiding his head under his pillow. It doesn’t do much to stifle the noise Clive was making, but maybe he could still doze back off. 
</p><p>
To say that he had a restless, terrible sleep would be an understatement. <i>‘Shut up, shut up!’</i> He inwardly begs after there’s another yell. Frank was five seconds away from grabbing his knife and gutting him.
</p><p>
<i>Blood drips from his fingers, down to the sea of red forming in the man’s chest. “What did we do, Frank?” someone asks, voice shaky. They’re unrecognizable to him. He can only stare at his hands, fascinated. Wet. So very wet.</i>
</p><p>
His eyes squeeze shut. The vivid memory leaves his mind as quickly as it came. What the fuck was wrong with him? He kills one person and then what, he suddenly wants to be the next Jeffery Dahmer? Of course, he didn’t want to hurt his stupid foster dad. Yet even as he tells himself that, his mind tauntingly plays out the scene of him grasping his knife. Of him opening the door. Slashing his throat. Watching the blood spill all over the filthy tan carpet. Pale blue eyes widening with realization. Clive trying to choke out his final words:
</p><p>
<i>“Morrison!”</i></p><p>
Frank grips the pillow tighter as if that’d be enough to protect him from his thoughts. <i>‘Just stay quiet,’</i> he thinks. His foster dad didn’t know whether Frank was a heavy sleeper or not; if he just ignored him, Clive would give up and go away. He wasn’t— couldn’t be when he had been constantly forced to live with stranger after stranger.</p><p>
As he suspects, Clive eventually gives up. He listens to his grumbles and those heavy-set footsteps of his fade away. Frank takes the opportunity to remove the stiff pillow off his head.
</p><p>
In his opinion, the less he and his foster dad spoke to one another— the better. They mutually benefited from one another, and that was as much as a relationship either wanted. Clive got to get drunk off the checks he got from the social workers; Frank did whatever the fuck he wanted without someone breathing down his neck.
</p><p>
...Ah fuck. Any drowsiness long since vanished the second he heard his name. Sluggishly, Frank rolls over to his nightstand and stares at the post-it note. It kept him up all night, but he had solved the mystery at the crack of dawn. After all, he wasn’t stupid: it was clearly his Legion— specifically, either Joey or Susie. Maybe both of them. They played an innocent game, but they were the ones who left Julie’s house first. 
</p><p>
See, the note was signed GF. 
</p><p>
For a second, he had thought it’d meant girlfriend. But that wouldn’t have made sense. Julie didn’t have time to leave it. Then it hit him. GF. 
</p><p>
  <i>
Gregory Fink. </i>
</p><p>
The true identity of The Frosted Man. No one else knew that besides the four of them. He scowls at the note again before crumpling it up. To think that he wasted his time feeling sorry for the lot: making sure none of them had been afraid, cheering them up with the idea of leaving... And this is how they repaid him. With a sick joke.
</p><p>
It would have been funny if they hadn’t done it to him.
</p><p>
Frank lingers in his bed for a little moment longer. It was an uncomfortable and frumpy thing that only served to make his back ache. Right now, it was heavenly. Frank finds himself staring up at the ceiling, the wheels turning in his mind. There was something… off about the note. Mostly, what it said.
</p><p>
  <i>
Don’t become boring too.
</i>
</p><p>
He rises from the bed, unfurls the note, and inspects it once more. Nothing. He flips it over. Nothing. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting. His Legion were acting like Judas, so he’d have to pry some information out of them when they met up. It was, after all, his day off. Before this whole shit, he’d loiter around the highschool and convince his trio to ditch early, and they’d start their usual mischief.
</p><p>
He makes his way to the dresser underneath his window. The first drawer had his goodies: a paper mask and his beloved knife. The mask, which grinned at him, was stained permanently with crimson. Unlike the knife, which had been meticulously cleaned, the mask refused to pretend it was innocent. One day, he’d make a new one, but part of him liked the reminder.
</p><p>
Back then, their after-school activities might have begun with some shoplifting at the local mart, or maybe they’d skip straight to smoking whatever they could get their hands on. Then, they might have tagged up some walls and threatened to beat up the nerds who dared stop them. Lastly, they’d go up to Mount Ormond. Their home away from home. 
</p><p>
Now, he waited ‘till their classes were over and drove them all to the local diner. It’d become a bit of a replacement for the lodge, though it was way worse as the mindless drones of Ormond High made it their resident joint. There, his Legion blended in easily as they could talk about whatever typical high schoolers did. A few times, he’d sit there chomping on fries while the others had a study session.
</p><p>
Frank terribly misses pushing his Legion’s limits. Wherever he lived, he had a group of little followers who hung on his every word. Yet, none of them were ever as willing to go as far as his newest friends. He doubted any of his old comrades would have joined him in breaking into the store that night. But his Legion did. That had to count for something, right? 
</p><p>
He can’t help but wonder if he pushed them too far this time. There had to be something fucked up with them if they were signing notes with a dead man’s initials.
</p><p>
Frank washes up, changes his clothes, throws on his varsity jacket, and shoves the note into his pocket. He barely steps into the living room when Clive turns his head to him from the comfort of his recliner. 
</p><p>
“Jesus, Morrison. The end of the world couldn’t wake you.”
</p><p>
Clive was pretty much the definition of trailer park trash— he had a prematurely balding head, dark bushy mustache with a soul patch and all. Indoors, he tended to wear stained white tank tops and would throw a flannel over it when he went out. He was husky and towered over most— basically the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to get into a bar brawl with. 
</p><p>
His hand always held a beer can, no matter what fucking time it was. He takes a sip of it now.
</p><p>
Frank plays stupid. “Huh?”
</p><p>
“I tried to wake you, but nothing. You were like a fucking corpse.” Clive looks at the dark puffy bags under Frank’s eyes critically. “And you look like shit.”
</p><p>
“What was the big emergency?” Frank asks, making his way to the fridge and throwing it open. There wasn’t much, and the expired lunch meat wasn’t at all appealing. As he grabs a browning apple, he makes a mental note to get actual food.
</p><p>
“Phone call,” Clive grunts.
</p><p>
Frank closes the door. “Aw shit, was it Steve?”
</p><p>
Clive cocks an eyebrow at the mention of Frank’s boss. “Any reason he should be calling?”
</p><p>
“Nah.”
</p><p>
“Honestly, kid.” Clive scratches his stomach with his free hand. “I couldn’t tell you who it was. He just asked to speak to you. I think it was that friend of yours.”
</p><p>
“Joey?”
</p><p>
Clive shrugs. “Guess so.” 
</p><p>
Frank frowns at that. His friends wouldn’t have called him so early unless it was important. “Did he leave a message?”
</p><p>
“Nah, when I came back to the phone, the bastard had hung up.”
</p><p>
“Some secretary you are,” Frank jokes.</p><p>
“Hey.” Clive points a finger at him. “You want me to ask for a message; you have to give me a raise.”
</p><p>
Frank smiles and bites into the apple. It was fucking garbage, so he throws it in the trash. There was no point in calling Joey back since the boy would be in school now. Frank had eight long hours to kill. “I’m going out.”
</p><p>
“So early?”
</p><p>
“Think I just wanna wander around. Get actual food.”
</p><p>
Clive hesitates. Usually, he wouldn’t give a shit where his charge went, but a troubled look crosses his features. After a moment, he gestures to the television with his can. 
“You heard about The Frosted Man?”
</p><p>
The news was on, but Clive had his shit at such a low volume he can’t make out the words. His heart jumps as his mind scatters with possibilities. Did the old fuck actually <i>know?</i>
</p><p>
Frank’s jaw hardens as his eyes drift to the rack of dull knives resting on the counter. “What about it?”
</p><p>
“They haven’t caught the fucker yet, so just be safe out there.” Clive wasn’t even looking at him, too focused on whatever the news was saying.
</p><p>
Frank visibly relaxes. “You don’t think I could take him?”
</p><p>
“If you die, my checks stop coming in,” Clive says, half-joking. Frank snorts, swiping his walkman from the coffee table. He throws on his headphones around his neck and walks out with a:
</p><p>
“See ya, old man.”
</p>
<hr class=""/><p>
In horror films, the police never give a shit that a crime was committed. There’d be maybe one or two cop cars seen in the background of a shot, just to remind the audience that they were there. Maybe it was just that the film crew couldn’t afford more extras. Still, it really gives murderers the wrong expectations, because that was clearly not the fucking case in the real world. Frank had never seen so many pigs outside of his brief stint in juvie. It was like they all came out of the woodwork, eager to be the first one to solve the town’s first big kill. 
</p><p>
  <i>
/ Karma police, arrest this man /
</i>
</p><p>
His car radio plays his favorite mixtape, but it’s barely audible to him. He’s too focused on making sure that he drives smoothly, without any slip-ups— even putting on his seatbelt. It would take just one mistake to get pulled over. It would take just one mistake for his life to be over. 
</p><p>
At a red light, his eyes drift to an abandoned plot of land. It was meant to become a Walmart, but construction had never begun as Ormond was too shitty of a place for one. Nature had reclaimed it, long blades of grass struggling to peek through the snow. There were cops aplenty there, some with shovels and dogs. Maybe they thought that the weapon had been buried there. Frank can’t help but give a little smile. They were just going to waste their time. 
</p><p>
The smile fades as quickly as it appears as he spies that American reporter speaking to one of the cops— tape recorder in hand and all. The officer had a prideful expression on his weathered features, as though he was just happy to get any kind of attention. Frank’s mouth dries. Why did he suddenly feel so worried? That reporter was incompetent as fuck. He was just some nerd, nothing to be scared of. Yet...
</p><p>
The reporter must have felt a stare on him because he turns his head quizzically towards Frank. He ducks his head down and drives off the second the light turns green. The last thing he needs is the man thinking that Frank was keeping an eye on him. That might rouse unwanted suspicion. The police were one thing, but there was nothing more dangerous than a reporter. At least, in films, they were willing to do anything to get the scoop. What if Florida decides to stick his nose where it didn’t belong?
</p><p>
His hands tremble as he continues to drive. They’re coated in crimson, dripping down onto his feet. Drip, drip. The reporter’s blood on them. He’s staring straight ahead. The road is gone from his sight. He’s grabbing the reporter by the throat, demanding he doesn’t tell a soul what he knows, pulling back his knife. It gleams with anticipation. The reporter tries to gasp out his apologies, his begging. Frank only laughs as his prey struggles against his iron grasp. Drives the knife down into his heart.
</p><p>
  <i>
/ This is what you’ll get when you mess with us / </i>
</p><p>
“Morrison!”
</p><p>
Frank blinks. His car is parked right next to the grocery store. Wait. Did someone speak to him? Shit! Shit! He had to dispose of the evidence. He nervously wipes his hands on his pants, but they were never dirtied to begin with. He pauses as he stares at his hands. Then, he glances up to see a steel-eyed cop staring at him through the window. Frank cranks it down, glaring up at him. </p><p>
He recognized this bozo as the cop who cuffed him after shoving his basketball team’s referee into the bleachers. “What?”</p><p>
  <i>
/ Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself /
</i>
</p><p>
He presses a button on his console, and the mixtape pops out, stopping the music. The cop glares back at him as he rests his hand on the car door. “You’re supposed to say: ‘What can I do for you, Officer McNamara?’”</p><p>
“Sorry,” Frank says flatly, “What can I do for you, Officer McNamara?”
</p><p>
“Clive was at the bar the other day, said you got a job. Is that true?”
</p><p>
Frank drums his fingers along his thigh. “Yep.”
</p><p>
“Where?”
</p><p>
“Steve’s gas station. Outside town.”
</p><p>
The cop observes him as if mulling the information over. Frank doesn’t even swallow, keeps his gaze steady. He has nothing to hide. There was nothing to hide because he didn’t know anything about the crime. He was at Susie’s house with the rest of his Legion. They were rewatching <i>A Nightmare on Elm Street</i>. Not his first choice, but it was Joey’s favorite. The officer could call them up if he needed to. Could even ask Susie’s dad if he needed to. He’d say the kids were up there all night. </p><p>
“That’s good,” McNamara finally says. A smile appears on his five o’clock shadow. “I’m glad you’ve decided to become a beneficial member of society.”
</p><p>
“It was time to grow up,” Frank replies.
</p><p>
“I agree. The last thing Ormond needs is more shit going topsy-turvy. You hear about The Frosted Man?”
</p><p>
“Who hasn’t?”
</p><p>
McNamara chuckles. “You know this town hasn’t had a murder since the fifties? This town is a good place, filled with good folks. We look out for one another here.” Frank struggles not to roll his eyes. “It’s hard to think of anyone that could have done such a heinous act.” From the tone of his voice, Frank thinks he might have a few suspects. And Frank was near the top of that list. “I know you and the rest of the brat pack like to cause trouble, but I’d rather not catch you doing something you shouldn’t be doing.” 
</p><p>
That was code for <i>please fuck up; I’d love to see you behind bars.</i>
</p><p>
“We’re not causing any trouble,” Frank keeps his tone polite and puts his palms up. The note in his pocket weighs heavily. “I know, I’m just as shocked as you are.”
</p><p>
McNamara’s smile never leaves his thin, long face. He reminds Frank of a crane, with a crooked beaky nose to match. “Forgive me if I don’t rush to believe that.” He taps the door and steps away from it. “Have a good day.”
</p><p>
“You too.” 
</p><p>
McNamara steps back into his car, unnecessarily turns the siren on, and drives off. Frank groans and slumps in his seat. His forehead hits the steering wheel. People got away with murder all the time. Just because one person was up his ass didn’t mean the whole town was. His plan was going to work. It had to. Though, he supposes, if he has to murder again (which he <i>wasn’t,</i> because that was a one-time thing), McNamara wouldn’t be a bad target. 
</p><p>
If the cop hadn’t already voiced his suspicions to the rest of his team, it could die with him.
</p>
<hr class=""/><p>
“Frank?”
</p><p>
He glances up from his tray of french fries. Only one of them had been slightly nibbled on, the rest completely untouched. His Legion were looking at him with puzzled expressions. In front of them were papers, probably schoolwork. The noise from the buzzing diner hits him in an instant: it was the chattering of people, waitresses taking orders, music from an era that should have been forgotten, dishes clashing amongst one another in the kitchen.
</p><p>
“What?” Frank asks, intelligently.
</p><p>
“Um, I was wondering if you knew what the definition of nadir was?” Susie taps her book with her pencil. “Test prep.”
</p><p>
Frank rolls his eyes. “How the fuck should I know?”
</p><p>
Susie gives a little ‘unno and returns to her work. Joey leans over his plate, rereads the question out loud: “Though Michael lost his wallet, the nadir of his day was getting fired…” Frank zones them out.
</p><p>
“You alright?” Julie is sitting across from him. Her leg is comfortably pressed against his, and he tilts his knee to push back. “You seem completely out of it.”
</p><p>
“Just thinking is all.” He turns his attention past them, towards the front counter. One of the waitresses is taking an order when her head turns to the phone. She lifts a finger to her customers, a hold on, and picks it up. A bright smile on her face as she gives her usual, upbeat greeting. It’s only a few seconds before her expression completely falls, and she slams the phone back on its receiver. A shake of her head and she went back to work. His lips curl upwards, ever so slightly. Must have been a crank call.
</p><p>
“Well, think less.” His attention turns back to Julie. She grins at him, plucking a fry from his plate and popping it in her mouth. “You’re being boring.”
</p><p>
  <i>
Boring.
</i>
</p><p>
No, she wouldn’t want him to become that, now would she? He moves his leg away from hers, but she gently presses hers back against his. He didn’t bother moving again. So she was in on it too. He’d never consider the possibility of her orchestrating it. A darkness strangles Frank’s heart, but it’s only for a second. He may not have even felt it at all. 
</p><p>
“Hey Joey?” Frank says, suddenly. The dark-haired junior obediently looks at him.  “Did you call me this morning?”
</p><p>
“Nope, I was running late to class this morning. It’s actually a pretty funny story. So my sister told me that I had to—”
</p><p>
Frank leans back against the booth, stares out the window. “I had someone call me this morning. Clive thought it was you.”
</p><p>
Joey pauses. “Oh, but it wasn’t. Sorry.”
</p><p>
A well-dressed couple walks past, holding hands like they were grade-schoolers. He tiredly glances at his Legion. Were they even his at this point? Lie after lie after lie. “Are you guys getting off on this shit or what?”
</p><p>
Even amongst the noise, their silence is deafening. Frank digs into his pocket and smacks Susie’s book with a familiar balled up post-it. She opens it, reads it. Her expression changes so quickly he can’t read it. “GF?”
</p><p>
<i>“Gregory Fink.”</i> Frank’s tone is low and dangerous.
</p><p>
Susie passes the note to Julie, who scans it before giving it to Joey. There’s a familiar look in their eyes. He remembers it from that night.
</p><p>
  <i>
He’s wiping his knife with a cloth. A sob comes from someone. He gives an exasperated sigh, whipping his head towards the noise— terror in big blue eyes. “You need to calm down,” he growls, like a feral animal. “We need to clean this shit up. Before anyone sees.” The people around him are statues, unmoving. “Well? You want me to ring the cops myself?” This spurs them into motion. He’s watching over them as they clean. The red that painted the checkered tiles is fading. Soon, it’s gone.
</i>
</p><p>
Frank almost smiles. So, he caught them. He waits for them to fess up. 
</p><p>
“What is this?” Julie’s voice is sharp but still hushed. “Is this a joke?”
</p><p>
“You tell me.”
</p><p>
“This is fucking sick, Frank.”
</p><p>
“I’m not the one who wrote it, Jules. I found it in my car last night. After I left your place.” He scans their faces. “So, first my work phone and now this. You guys did this to what? Scare me? Because you should know, I don’t scare.”
</p><p>
“Why would you think it was us?” Julie retorts, her face contorted with disgust. “We wouldn’t fuck with you like this. We’re your friends.”
</p><p>
“Yeah!” Joey smacks his palms flat on the table. When people look over, he sinks in his seat and waits until they look away. “Frank, maybe someone else is doing this? We’ve screwed over a lot of people.” 
</p><p>
“No one else knows who GF is,” Frank counters.
</p><p>
Susie trembles. It’s clear she’s trying to hold back tears. “Do you think?” She whispers, struggling to say the words. “Do you think someone else knows?”
</p><p>
“Maybe GF stands for something else.” Joey reassures, “Like ‘girlfriend’?”
</p><p>
“That would just mean Jules did it.” Frank snorts as Julie jerks her leg back. He finds himself missing her warmth.
</p><p>
“Why would it mean <i>I’ve</i> done it? We’re not dating. Besides, I’d never do something like that; you know that.”
</p><p>
“So, none of you are going to confess?”
</p><p>
“Fuck off,” Julie snaps, “For all we know, you did this and just want to stir up drama. Is being good too much of a hardship for you, Frank? Are you that stir-crazy that you’d invent all of this shit up?”</p><p>
Frank sees red. His friends are covered in it. His hands are covered in it.
</p><p>
“Jules—” Susie interjects, but it’s too late. Frank rises from the booth.
</p><p>
<i>“No one calls Frank Morrison boring.”</i> He doesn’t give a shit <i>who’s</i> listening. Eyes are all over him. It’s almost suffocating. “And no one tells him to fuck off.” Joey scrambles out of his seat before Frank can shove him off. “You can all walk home, for all I care.”
</p><p>
“Frank,” Joey pleads, but the dropout storms off without another word.
</p>
<hr class=""/><p>
It’s dark by the time Frank slams the front door shut. He waits for a moment for Clive to scold him. He wants Clive to start something tonight. But there’s nothing. The drunkard must already be off at his favorite spot. He yanks the headphones off his neck, throwing the walkman down on the coffee table. He needs to get the fuck out of here. He needs to go do something. <i>Anything.</i>
</p><p>
He’s making his way to his room to grab his spray cans when the phone rings. His hands fly to his head, tousling his hair in frustration. What he needed to do was calm the fuck down. 
</p><p>
Another ring. It must be his Legion, begging for him to come back. He wasn’t going to. That’s what they deserve for acting so defiantly.
</p><p>
Frank takes a breath to steady himself. He coolly grabs the phone, pressing it to his ear. “What do you want?”
</p><p>
“Hello?” came the voice. It was deep, a little raspy. A voice he’s never heard before— the confusion sucker-punches him and douses the fire in his mind.
</p><p>
“Hello?” Frank returns.
</p><p>
“Who is this?”
</p><p>
Frank can hardly believe what he’s hearing. “You called me, dipshit.”
</p><p>
“Oh,” an easygoing laugh came through. “I guess I did.”
</p><p>
Frank rolls his eyes. “Okay. Bye.” 
</p><p>
“Wait, wait. Don’t—”
</p><p>
Frank hangs up.
</p><p>
The phone rings again. Frank’s nostrils flare with annoyance, but he answers it once more. “What?”
</p><p>
“You asked me what I wanted. I just want to talk.”
</p><p>
Frank leaned against the fridge. “You have the wrong number for that. I don’t talk with strangers over the phone.” A lie, but whatever.
</p><p>
Another laugh. “But we <i>aren’t</i> strangers.”
</p><p>
Frank makes a face at that. “Okay. I’m definitely hanging up now, ya fuckin’ creep.”
</p><p>
“Come on, Frankie. Don’t be so rude.”
</p><p>
For a second, he doesn’t say anything. His eyes narrow with suspicion. “I thought you didn’t know who this was.” 
</p><p>
“Just wanted to be sure.”
</p><p>
“Christ, Joey. Is this you?”
</p><p>
“No,” the voice says teasingly, “We don’t even sound the same. Come on, you’re brighter than that. I’m just an admirer of yours, is all.”
</p><p>
An admirer? Frank should feel grimy from the sleazy way the stranger spoke, but it only piques his interest. This was new. A bit exciting, even. “Yea?”
</p><p>
“Yeah.” There’s crackling at the other end as though the stranger is adjusting himself. “You know, I’ve been watching those friends of yours. They aren’t treating you right, are they?” He could almost hear the little pout at the end.
</p><p>
“You’ve been <i>watching</i> them?”
</p><p>
“Oh sure. I watch everyone, Frankie.”
</p><p>
“Frank.”
</p><p>
“Not gonna lie, I was a little disappointed to see that you thought they were fun enough to think of my lovely little note. They’re the ones who are dull, not you. It’s never been you.”
</p><p>
The realization following the caller’s words strikes him like lightning. “You? You’re GF?”
</p><p>
There’s a smile in the other’s voice. “Attaboy.”
</p><p>
Frank walks over to the knife rack, pulling out one at random. The man must have gotten into his car somehow. His mind scrambles to put together a timeline of the night before. He hadn’t seen anyone out on Julie’s street. The tip of the knife meets the counter. “How long have you been watching?”
</p><p>
“A while,” the voice hums. “Why, is there something you want to keep hush-hush?”
</p><p>
Frank’s tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth. He can’t find the words.
</p><p>
The stranger changes the subject with a chuckle. “You’ve been feeling bored, haven’t you Frankie?”
</p><p>
“Frank,” he struggles out.
</p><p>
“Oh dear,” the caller clicks his tongue. “I completely understand. In fact, I may be the only one in this shithole of a town that does. See, after your first murder…” The voice gives a dreamy little sigh, “Nothing ever gives you the same thrill. You’re doomed to be bored forever.”
</p><p>
Frank presses the phone tighter against his ear. His heart is pounding so loudly he can barely hear the other man. His words come out a whisper: “What did you say?”
</p><p>
The voice somehow gets lower, still in that same teasing tone. “But I can bring back that excitement in your life. Just like on that dreary, cold winter’s night…”
</p><p>
The color drains from Frank’s face.
</p><p>
“Tell me how it felt, Frankie. Tell me how it felt when you killed Gregory Fink.”
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">it's been so hot, it's been so hard to write!! ;w; anyways, big thank you to my beta reader megidola  ♥</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Broken Toys</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
For the first time in nineteen years, Frank doesn’t know what to say.
</p>
<p>
There’s quiet breathing on both sides of the call, but the stranger’s is a little faster. More excited— he’s waiting. Waiting for what? <i>Fuck.</i> What was his alibi? He’s scrambling to remember it, but nothing comes to mind. But why the fuck does Frank find himself caring? He should just tell him to suck a dick, hang up, and unplug the phone for the rest of eternity. He doesn’t. His limbs no longer belong to him and though he instructs them to move they do not. 
</p>
<p>
Too much time has passed for him to play innocent, yet he tries anyway: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p>
<p>
“I think you do,” is the easy reply.</p>
<p>
Frank scowls. <i>“Well, I don’t.”</i> The knife scars the countertop and he squints past the window above the sink. Out in the dark, there’s no sign of anything or anyone. Yet the stranger’s earlier boast crosses his mind, causing an odd bout of adrenaline to surge through him. It jolts him into action and as casually as possible, he drops the pale blue curtain. There was quiet for a moment. Then, a crackling noise on the other end.
</p>
<p>“That wasn’t very nice.”</p>
<p>
“You’re watching me right now.” A statement, not a question. Frank didn’t know it at the time, but the strange feeling that begins to pool in his stomach is the same anticipation one got when they were at the highest point of a roller coaster. The thrilling sense of being in danger. However, he confuses it for nervousness and pushes the feeling aside. He can’t show any weakness if the stranger was watching.
</p>
<p>
That teasing tone again: <i>“Maybe.”</i>
</p>
<p>
“That’s pretty twisted.” Frank manages to keep himself from racing to peek out every single window in an attempt to find his caller. The stranger says it like it’s something that shouldn’t even <i>be</i> a problem, but Frank begs to differ. “How often do you watch me?”</p>
<p>
“That’s not very fair, Frankie. You didn’t even answer my question.”
</p>
<p>
Frank scoffs, gripping the hilt of the knife tighter. “I already told you, if you don’t wanna believe me that’s on you.” He lazily walks around the counter to the living room, going to the window by the door. He peers outside. A malfunctioning streetlight a little further down flickers. Nothing. <i>Shit.</i>
</p>
<p>
The stranger only laughs. “You won’t find me, so don’t worry your pretty little head over it.”</p>
<p>Well. That was a first. Frank has been called a lot of things in his life, but ‘pretty’ wasn’t one of them. GF did say he was an ‘admirer’ right? Did he mean that <i>romantically?</i> His nose crinkles in disgust at the thought. “You queer or something?”</p>
<p>
“Or something.” There’s a smile in the other’s tone. “If you saw me, what would you do?” He speaks in that same, sleazy manner from earlier, the one that makes his skin prickle as though he was getting prodded by needles. “You gonna use that knife to stab me like poor ol’ Fink?”
</p>
<p>
His patience is beginning to wear thin. What did the stranger want? A handwritten confession? Was this McNamara, trying to go undercover and confirm his suspicions? Nah, that didn’t make sense. McNamara was way too much of a straight-laced bootlicker for this kinda shit.
</p>
<p>
“Hello?” The stranger whispers, with amused concern. “Did you die on me?”
</p>
<p>
Frank knows he has to play this smart.  “Just thinkin’. So what does GF stand for, anyway?”</p>
<p>
“Ghostface.” The stranger seems pleased with his question.
</p>
<p>
Frank’s eyebrows furrow. His mind drifts to him and his Legion sneaking past a ticket booth, to him buying Julie popcorn, to Susie hiding her face in his arm for half the film. Suddenly, this phone call made a lot more sense. “Like Stab?”
</p>
<p>
“Don’t bring up that movie,” the stra— <i>Ghostface</i> hisses, “It was a piece of shit. I was the original Ghostface until that fucking cocksucker Loomis took <i>my</i> name and <i>my</i> credit.”
</p>
<p>
“You didn’t even ask me what my favorite scary movie was,” Frank can’t help but tease, twirling the knife with ease. It was a lot bigger than his tactical knife, but it was still easy enough to handle.</p>
<p>
“I don’t have to ask,” Ghostface sounds bored. Guess Frank bruised his poor ego. “It’s Hellraiser. A bit of an overdone pick.”
</p>
<p>
Frank shrugs. He thought that Kirsty was a hot piece of ass, and he liked that she wasn’t some passive final girl. This probably wasn’t the time for an in-depth discussion about movie tastes though. “Also, the calls don’t usually last this long.”
</p>
<p>
“What can I say?” A chuckle. “I like your voice.”
</p>
<p>
“Does that mean you’ve killed people before?”
</p>
<p>
“Oh yeah. Way more than you have.”
</p>
<p>
Frank ignores the implication. “Are you going to kill me?”
</p>
<p>
“No.” 
</p>
<p>
He had figured. If Ghostface was who he said he was, he would have been dead a minute or two into the call. Frank squints at the clock above the television. He wasn’t quite sure how long he’d been on the line, but if he had to put a guess around twenty minutes. Frank wasn’t sure why he hadn’t hung up on what was an obvious crank call. Maybe because this was the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in the last three months. </p>
<p>
“Why is the big bad Ghostface out here in <i>Canada</i> of all places?” Frank plays along.
</p>
<p>
“Why do you ask so many questions without answering mine?” Ghostface shoots back. 
</p>
<p>
He rolls his eyes at the childish answer. He leans against the window frame, still staring into the dark. “Yours wasn’t even a question. You just told me to tell you how it was like killing the janitor.” Frank’s teeth crush his tongue at the slip-up.
</p>
<p>
Ghostface is smug. “The janitor, huh?”
</p>
<p>
Shit. <i>Shit. Shit!</i> So much for playing it smart. Guess he’d just have to scare him off. 
</p>
<p>
“Look.” Frank scowls, ignoring the bleeding in his mouth. He puts his ear closer to his phone, accidentally pressing the numbers with his cheek. A loud beep interrupts him, but the call doesn’t disconnect. “If you want to keep being a creep, pretending to be Ghostface, that’s whatever. Who cares? Not my problem. Stalk this whole shithole, if you want. But if you know what’s good for you, <i>you’ll leave me and my Legion alone.”</i>
</p>
<p>
Ghostface bursts out laughing. <i>“Your Legion?”</i>
</p>
<p>
Frank is taken aback by the other’s nonchalant reply. Usually, when he threatened people, they would shit themselves and begin to beg profusely. As the other continues to laugh he feels himself begin to seethe. His face burns from how hot his blood turns. The coppery taste lingers in Frank’s mouth. Was the asshole making fun of him? He didn’t care who the fuck he was claiming to be. He was going to flay his ass alive. 
</p>
<p>
“What’s so funny?” He demands.
</p>
<p>
“Sorry, sorry!” Ghostface gasps out before another snicker escapes him. “It’s just… <i>Your Legion?</i> That’s rich! If you knew what I knew…”
</p>
<p>
“What the <i>fuck</i> is that supposed to mean?”
</p>
<p>
“Well, Frankie,” Ghostface composes himself. His voice returns to that soothing rasp as if the last few seconds had never happened at all. “Maybe a few months ago, sure, they would have waited on you hand and foot. You’re outta your mind if you think that they still belong to you. See, you’ve made one big mistake.”
</p>
<p>
An impatient “mistake?” escapes Frank’s lips before he can even stop it. Fuck. He didn’t want to seem like he was <i>listening</i> to this trash. But he was. Even as angry as he was, he was hanging on every word.  There was just something about the way the caller spoke, with this laissez-faire certainty, that made him pay attention.
</p>
<p>
Ghostface sighs as if it was supposed to be obvious to Frank. “You played with your toys too roughly. <i>You broke them!”</i> The caller chides with a tsk, but Frank knows the tone is meant to mock him.
</p>
<p>
“That’s bullshit.” He doesn’t quite believe his own words when he says them out loud. It would… explain a lot about their behavior lately.
</p>
<p>
“You sure?” Ghostface hums. “Remind me, Frankie. When was the last time any of them wanted to do something <i>fun?</i> When was the last time Joey asked to tag a wall? When has little Susie wanted to go steal makeup?”
</p>
<p>
He can answer that easily. Three months ago, before all this shit went down. He decides that he <i>really really</i> hates that this stranger knows all their names. When he doesn’t reply out loud, the caller takes that as his cue to continue.
</p>
<p>
“You told them to act normal, but guess what? They were always normal. They just wanted to impress the cool outsider.” Ghostface begins to talk faster and Frank’s mind has to race to keep up, “Stealing and tagging was one thing, but <i>murder?</i> Knocked the rose-colored glasses off their faces, Frankie. Now, they’re too afraid to tell you that they don’t want to be your playthings anymore— they see what you’re capable of, after all.”
</p>
<p>
  <i>
“Frank!” Julie gasps as Frank pushes her aside to slash at the janitor, onto the dead man walking. He can barely hear her through the roaring in his ears. The man stumbles back, slips, and in that instant, Frank is on him. The old man tries to scream, but he covers his mouth with his bandaged hand and stabs the blade into his side. He can’t control himself. He keeps digging it in until the knife scrapes bone. The man is crying under him, thrashing. The noise is better than any of his favorite mixtapes. He takes a moment to relish it. Holy shit! He throws his head back, stares at the fluorescent lights above. He’s never felt so fucking alive! He is God!
</i>
</p>
<p>
“Shut up!” Frank snarls, shaking his head to rid himself of the memory. “You’ve lost your goddamn brain if you think that’s true! They’re my friends, not some fucking toys!”
</p>
<p>
“Does that help you sleep better at night?” Ghostface purrs.
</p>
<p>
“You don’t know anything about me OR them!” The knife in his hand is trembling. How fucking <i>dare</i> he? They might be acting odd towards him, acting all defiant, but... “They’re not some disposable trash! They’re loyal to me! Only me! They’d <i>never</i>  leave me!”
</p>
<p>
“Me, me, me. It’s always about you, isn’t it? That’s what happened at the diner, right?”
</p>
<p>
Frank’s heart is pounding against its ribcage, threatening to pop out of his chest. He was there? At the diner? … That’s right. The note. He had accused them of writing the note, but it was the stranger all along. Rage builds in him <i>and fuck!</i> In frustration, he jabs the knife into the cushion on the windowsill. He wishes it was his caller. On the other end of the call, Ghostface’s breath hitches.
</p>
<p>
“Do you just follow me everywhere I go, faggot?” He yanks back the phone from his shoulder, all but yelling into it. “Don’t have anything better to do with your time or what?”
</p>
<p>
Silence.
</p>
<p>
“I’m going to kill somebody in a week, Frank.” Ghostface sounds like a completely different person, devoid of all emotion. That feeling in Frank’s stomach is back.</p>
<p>
His eyes grow wide and the phone nearly slips from his grasp. Was... was he fucking with him? Was he going to hurt his friends? He opens his mouth to defend them, to threaten this fucker, but can’t get in a single syllable as the caller continues.
</p>
<p>
“They’re going to know it was me. Not because I’ll get caught, but because I’m like you. No matter how much you deny it. We thrive on their attention, the fear, the game…” A chuckle. “I bet when you killed Fink you felt better than you ever did in your life.”
</p>
<p>
Yes. 
</p>
<p>
God, yes.
</p>
<p>
It’s all he can keep thinking about. The rush, <i>the feel.</i> Every waking moment has been him, back under the moonless night. At this moment, even now, his hands are soaked in the janitor’s blood. But he’s not... He’s not a fucking killer. It was a one-time thing. That’s it. A one-time thing. He did it to protect his friends. Any normal person would have done the same. Any normal person would have felt that same power. Any normal person would be fascinated by seeing themselves on the news! He’s not like this fucking psycho! He was normal! He was normal! Fuck, he
</p>
<p>He <i>needs</i> to fucking compose himself.</p>
<p>
Frank swallows thickly, puts the phone back on his shoulder. Ghostface was still watching him and he couldn’t let the man think he was afraid or starting to fall for his shit. His mind feels like he’s walking through sludge. How did this fucker get under his skin so badly? He forces himself not to think about it. Priorities, priorities— he needs to make sure <i>his</i> Legion is safe.
</p>
<p>
“You touch my friends and you’re dead meat.” He doesn’t sound nearly as convincing as he needs to be.</p>
<p>
“Relax, Frankie, relax!” Ghostface’s easygoingness returns. “I’d never lay a hand on them. I wouldn’t want to upset you, of course.”</p>
<p>
“I could go to the police with this, you know. Tip them off.”
</p>
<p>
“No, you couldn’t.”
</p>
<p>
No, Frank couldn’t. The cops fucking hated him and would probably boot him from the station the second they saw him. He could leave a phone tip, maybe, but what proof did he have besides his gut feeling that this wasn’t some empty threat? It’s not like he knew who was pretending to be Ghostface. Besides, what if knowing about a future murder made him a suspect of The Frosted Man? Frank had no options. He’s more drained than he’s ever felt in his life.</p>
<p>
“Why are you telling me all this?”
</p>
<p>
“A bit of a cliched question, but oh well!” His chipper voice is closer to the phone, overtaking Frank’s sluggish mind. “Truth is, you’re still trying to be something you’re not. And I think once you see my work in the papers, you’ll be <i>dying</i> to change that.”
</p>
<p>
Frank is stunned by the sheer audacity of the other man, causing him to bark out a humorless laugh. “And why the <i>fuck</i> would I do that?”
</p>
<p>
“Because,” he can practically hear the shit-eating grin on the other line. “You’re bored.”
</p>
<p>
With that, the line went dead.
</p><hr class=""/>
<p>
Five days left. Frank pulls out yet another cigarette from his second pack of the day. It wasn’t even noon yet. It takes a few tries for his clammy thumb to flick the light. Once, twice, three times. The flame appears and dances as care-free as ever. He watches it for a moment, before putting his thumb over it in an attempt to smother it out. His skin screams at the pain, wants him to pull back, but he doesn’t. Out of spite, he stays a second longer before finally allowing relief. Cool air hits his thumb, red like it’s been crying. Soon, it’ll begin to blister.
</p>
<p>
He lights his cigarette and takes a drag.
</p>
<p>
He barely remembers coming into work today. He vaguely remembers his boss berating him the moment he punched in, calling him a shit little ingrate. He took a chance on Frank, after all. Everyone else thinks Frank’s a lost cause, except him. He gave Frank a job, a chance, and this is how he’s repaid? The phone is coming out of your pay, do you hear? Morrison! Are you even listening, punk? You think you’re such hot shit, don’t you? Not even going to answer? Well, I have news for you. You’re a nobody. Just some highschool dropout. And if you fuck up again, you’re out. And then who else is going to take pity on trash like you? Jesus. Poor Clive. The shit he has to deal with.</p>
<p>
He inhales the smoke and lets it fill his lungs. The news, still feasting away at the story of The Frosted Man, played in the background. The morning shift was a lot busier than the night shift. Instead of just one shitty American, there were two whole customers. He recognizes them as the couple he saw outside the diner window the other day. They’re giggling, putting their hands around each other. Giving each other cheesy little lines that make him want to puke.</p>
<p>
The man was tall. Was Ghostface tall? Frank watches them carefully as they pick up some “road trip snacks.” Was he going to kill the poor girl right in front of Frank? He waits for the blond man to turn to him, wink, pull out his weapon of choice. But nothing happens.</p>
<p>
Were they the ones Ghostface had an eye on? Were they going to be the ones on the news, taking attention off his story? Was Ghostface watching them right now? He waits for himself to feel a wave of worry at the very thought. But nothing happens. Frank doesn’t know these people, but damn. He can’t even fake a little bit of sympathy?</p>
<p>
That’d never bothered him before. He liked being distant from people. Caring for people was just more trouble than it was worth. But the lack of anything was annoying <i>the fuck</i> out of him right now. Why couldn’t he feel worried about these morons? They paid and the man tells Frank that they’re off to Montreal to visit family and why can’t he bring himself to give even the slightest fuck about these people?</p>
<p>
They leave, happier than pigs in shit.
</p>
<p>
Frank <i>knew</i> he wasn’t a good person. He’d never been a good person— there was a reason foster families would throw him around like he was rotten garbage. His social services file was fat as fuck from all the reports and complaints about him. But god, someone was going to die in a week and <i>seriously,</i> was the only thing that bothered him about that was the fact the news would move past The Frosted Man?
</p>
<p>
It’d be really funny if, in a week, nothing happens. If he’s just counting down the days for nothing. It’d be funny if the caller claiming to be Ghostface was a prank call after all. It’d be funny if they didn’t do it to him. He had thought about his possible suspects— this time crossing out his Legion from the list first. He’s already accused them a million times and that’d completely backfired. It was like Joey said, they’ve pissed off a lot of people. Half of Ormond probably wanted some type of revenge on Frank. It had to be one of the nameless masses.</p>
<p>
Honestly, if someone did die it’d be great for him!</p>
<p>
First off, this entire town blew. Secondly, the heat would be off him and his Legion. They could probably keep this little charade going for another month or two and then book it out of Ormond forever. They could just claim they were afraid of the danger. No one would think twice. Maybe he should be hoping that Ghostface <i>does</i> go through with his word. Wait, no. That’s fucked up. Damn it, Frank. If that freak knew he was rooting for the murder, he’d probably act all self-satisfied: “See, Frankie? You’re just as crazy as me!” or some total bullshit along those lines.</p>
<p>
The bell chimes. A record-setting third customer. Frank props himself up on his elbows because he’s totally alert and present. His dark brown eyes meet pretty blue ones. <i>Susie?</i> He takes the half-finished dart and crushes it in his nearly full ashtray. “What are you doing here?”
</p>
<p>
“Hi Frank,” she says, shyly. She’s lingering by the doorframe, staring at her scratched up doc martens. He watches her, wondering if she’s waiting for permission or if she’s debating running off. He chooses the former. Frank takes a second to shut off the television.
</p>
<p>
“You can come in, you know.” 
</p>
<p>
The pink-haired girl looks up gratefully and comes towards the counter. She bites her lower lip, studying his face. He guesses that the dark bags under his eyes are the main spectacle. “You um... You look like shit.”
</p>
<p>
Frank snorts. “Gee, thanks.”
</p>
<p>
She gives a sheepish little smile and a half-shrug. He smiles back at her.
</p>
<p>
“Shouldn’t you be in school, Braceface?” He eyes the clock on the wall critically. It was a little past noon. She straightens up, her mouth turning downwards ever so slightly.
</p>
<p>
“It’s okay. It’s lunch hour.” She affirms her statement with a nod. “I was worried about you. You left so suddenly yesterday and... um..” She fiddles with her hands. “I just wanted to say sorry. I don’t even know what Julie was thinking...” Frank searches her face, but he can’t read her expression. Was she genuinely sympathetic? Was she just trying to appease him out of fear? Which one does Frank hate more?
</p>
<p>
Honest to god, she looks like a cherub. Her cheeks were chubby and naturally rosy from the cold Ormond air outside. Her eyes were like a doe’s with long dark lashes to suit. Her pale pink lips, although thinner than most, served only to compliment her features. Light freckles dusted her nose. He mocked them before, but honestly, they were rather cute.</p>
<p>
“I just wanted to know if you were alright,” she was saying.
</p>
<p>
Was he alright? Frank wants to laugh. Yeah, he was fine. Julie was probably still pissed at him, a cop was suspicious of him, his boss wanted him to die in a ditch, and <i>oh!</i> They were all being stalked by someone claiming to be Ghostface, you know, from that movie Stab? He was just peachy. Susie was staring at him with a fierce intensity he didn’t know she had. If he told her about his mystery caller, she’d probably think he’s gone insane. But he doesn’t think she’d let him off the hook with an “I’m fine.”
</p>
<p>
“I guess this shit is just getting to me.”
</p>
<p>
That was all she was going to get out of him, but she seems satisfied with that.
</p>
<p>
“Yeah, me too.” Susie pauses and he can tell she’s debating her next words. “It’s getting serious, Frank. They’re having all of us stay after school to talk to this officer one by one about what we were doing and stuff… I just can’t wait for all of this to be over.”
</p>
<p>
A cop, huh? He can only think of one pig that’d be putting his nose where it doesn’t belong. Frank sighs inwardly, makes a mental note to visit the school after his shift. “You worried?”
</p>
<p>
“How can I not be?” She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m not like you.” His heart thumps at that. “I’m not fearless, you know! But I remember the alibi. We were at my place, watching Black Christmas—”
</p>
<p>
“A Nightmare on Elm Street,” Frank corrects.
</p>
<p>
“Right!” Susie pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. “Shit!” 
</p>
<p>
Frank chuckles. She sticks out her tongue at him. “Why couldn’t we have gone with my pick? It’s my house.”</p>
<p>“Because Black Christmas sucks.”</p>
<p>Susie lets out an offended huff. “Okay, so. My house. A Nightmare on Elm Street. Got it.” </p>
<p>“Knew you could do it, champ.”</p>
<p>The two of them linger for a minute in a comfortable quiet. He had noted it before, but even with the threat of the cop, she still seemed… content. Normally, she was pulling out her hair and fretting over <i>something.</i> Susie should be bawling her eyes out, not making jokes with him. His smile falls and he thinks back to Ghostface’s words. He had been the one to say it out loud, but Frank had thought it for a while.</p>
<p>“Hey, Sus?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Do you miss the lodge?”</p>
<p>“Sure I do. But we can’t go back there anymore. It’s kind of a bummer, I think I left one of my mixtapes up there. But it’s okay, because the diner is pretty fun too, right?”</p>
<p>“No, I mean.” Why is he hesitating? “Do you miss the shit we used to do?”</p>
<p>She looks at him strangely. “Why do you ask?”</p>
<p>“Just curious, I guess.”</p>
<p>Susie thinks about it. “I did, in the beginning, yeah. But now…” She trails off, pursing her lips together.</p>
<p>“Now?” He presses, tentatively. </p>
<p>“I don’t, Frank.” She admits slowly, her fingers intertwining together. “It was fun, don’t get me wrong. I guess I just forgot how nice it was to not do such risky things, not worrying about getting caught… I like just being able to hang out with you guys, do silly teen stuff. I um, even started my college applications.” His heart sinks. “I want to see the world outside Ormond, but maybe wherever we decide to settle, I can go to school there.”</p>
<p>Susie is as bright as the sun itself and she devours Frank in the darkness of her shadow. He’d suspected her answer, but hearing it from her mouth was… wasn’t what he had hoped to hear. He so desperately wanted to be proven wrong. Hadn’t he known his Legion better than anyone? <i>You broke them!</i> The words echo in his ears. </p>
<p>“Oh.” Because what else can he say?</p>
<p>Noticing his shift in demeanor, she goes to the other side of the counter. She’s next to Frank, pressing her arm comfortably into his. He’d bet anything that she doesn’t know why her words bugged him so much. Even with her warmth, he still feels numb. Like his skin doesn’t belong to him.</p>
<p>They stay that way for a while.</p>
<p>“How did you feel after we killed him?” Frank asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He’s staring at his hands, focusing on the fading scars. He presses his burned thumb against the counter. He can’t even get himself to look at her.</p>
<p>Susie glances up at the ceiling light. “I felt miserable. Someone was dead. Because of us. That was the worst night of my entire life. Remember? I couldn’t stop crying, I just felt so bad. I still don’t think I’m over it. Sometimes I think I am, sometimes I don’t think about it for a while, but…” She rests her head on his shoulder, her pink strands contrasting the green of his jacket. </p>
<p><i>‘She smells like lavender,’</i> Frank thinks.</p>
<p>“Then I have this recurring dream,” she continues, her voice soothing to his ears. He allows himself this, allows his eyes to slip close. “We’re at the store again. You start towards him, but I grab your arm. I pull you back. You decide it isn’t worth it and we leave. And everything is okay again.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">as always, thank you to my lovely beta reader megidola for all your hard work ♥<br/>i'd also really want to thank everyone who's left a comment, dropped a kudos, or even took a minute to read this fanfic. your support fills me with so much serotonin and keeps my motivation going strong :')</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">i rewrote this chapter probably like, fifty times, but i hope you all enjoy how it turned out at the end!</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Found Family</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
“What the fuck is <i>he</i> doing here?” Julie marches up to Susie and Frank, jerking her head towards the latter. It was after classes now, most of the student body had been dismissed and they scattered out the building like roaches.
</p><p>“I told him to come,” Susie explains, a bit timid. “I wanted to keep him in the loop.”</p><p>“Well, <i>we</i> have it handled,” Julie tells Frank, frostily, “I’ve already been questioned and they let me go. You showing up is just going to look suspicious.”</p><p>Frank sneers, tilting his head. “When have I ever listened to what you tell me?”</p><p>She rolls her eyes. “Fine, stay, whatever.” She presses a perfectly manicured finger against his chest. “But just because Susie is cool with your douchebaggery, don’t think I’m going to apologize to you. You were a real dick.”</p><p>“Yeah, I know,” Frank agrees.</p><p>“And furthermo—” Julie pauses. She blinks and tilts her head up at him quizzically. “Wait, you <i>know?”</i></p><p>“I shouldn’t have jumped the gun, it was stupid of me. I was just pretty fucking paranoid.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, running a finger over his blistered thumb. “So, I guess I should be saying sorry.”</p><p>Julie stares at him, dumbstruck. She steps back from him. Susie, on the other hand, looks downright giddy. “Who are you, and what have you done with Frank?”</p><p>“Harr harr. Trust me, this is a one time deal.”</p><p>“Okay, well.” She still seems a little wary, but not as prickly as she was before. She even manages a little smile. “Cool.” She looks at both of them before nodding. “I have a job interview today, a receptionist at the beauty salon. I’ll call you guys if I get the job.”</p><p>No wonder she looked so dolled up, changing out her usual jean and plaid jacket combo for a fashionable skirt and blazer. Her hair was loose curls and a handful of it was tied up in a ponytail in the back. Of course, the cop let her go without much hassle— she looked like a model more than a murderer.</p><p>“Good luck!” Susie threw her arms around her best friend, delighted that her friends were no longer feuding. “You’ll do great!”</p><p>“She doesn’t need luck,” Frank declares, causing the two girls to look at him. “She’ll get it. Otherwise, they’re morons.”</p><p>“Damn straight.” Julie grins, before releasing Susie. As the pink-haired girl moves away, Julie salutes them and gives a “See ya, bitches.” before she walks off.</p><p>They watch her go. His eyes linger on her backside a little longer than they should.</p><p>“You know,” Susie says, in a hushed whisper as soon as Julie is out of sight. “She wants you to ask her to the formal.”</p><p>How funny that it doesn't even surprise him that <i>Julie</i> out of all people was thinking about attending a school event. He smiles wryly at that. Had he discovered this fact yesterday, he would have been downright furious. Now, he just thinks about her dancing under color-changing lights and taking his hand and maybe it isn’t all so bad. He lingers on the vision a little too long, her dress becoming stained red. It snaps him out of it.</p><p>“Maybe I will,” he mumbles before asking, “Where’s Joey?”</p><p>“Guess he’s still being questioned.”</p><p>Poor Joey. It wouldn’t surprise him if McNamara was probably a racist fuck who was just grilling the junior over and over again. “Was anyone else told to stay after?” He asks.</p><p>“Just us, but it makes sense since everyone knows we hang with you.” Susie grimaces. “No offense.” None taken. It was like every adult had a hard-on for wanting Frank to fuck up. The two of them walk into the school building, weaving through the off-white halls and rows of lockers to reach the conference room.</p><p>“Thank you,” he could hear from inside. “Y-You’ve been a big help, really!”</p><p>He recognizes that obnoxiously high voice immediately. <i>Florida?</i></p><p>Chairs scrape the floor, being pushed back, and soon Joey emerges. He looked anxious, but upon seeing his friends his expression changed to utter relief. He takes his place by Frank’s side and the trio watch as the other occupants of the room exit. Frank’s dreaded foe McNamara and... that stupid reporter from the gas station. So he was actually doing his job. What was his luck?</p><p>Florida’s face lights up upon seeing Frank, but it’s McNamara who speaks first: “Well, well. Look what the devil dragged in.” He smirks, his hand on his holster. “I figured one of your little lackeys would clue you in.”</p><p>“Sup.” Frank gives a sarcastic little wave.</p><p>McNamara narrows his eyes, clearly displeased by the lack of manners. “Actually, you’re just the person I’d like to see.” He turns to Florida. “Why don’t we question him first?”</p><p>“S-sure!” Florida stammers, before scampering back into the room like a loyal mutt.</p><p>“How’d you get that poor fuck on your payroll?” Frank snorts.</p><p>“In.” McNamara steps aside. All Frank wants to do is spit in his face and throw a punch, because no one fucking commands him. But, unfortunately, he kind of had the upper hand here. If he told him to fuck off, it’d just look suspicious. So instead, he shrugs and looks at his friends.</p><p>“I’ll be back.”</p><p>“We’ll wait here!” Joey reassures, clasping his hand on Frank’s shoulder comfortingly. Frank nods appreciatively before he enters the room.</p><p>Frank takes his seat across the table from the two men, making sure to sit as leisurely as possible. He sits with his legs spread and arm hung over the chair. Florida gives him a big, dopey smile and McNamara looks like he just swallowed glass. The tension is suffocating, but the reporter doesn’t even seem to notice it.</p><p>“It’s n-nice to see you again!” He chirps, pushing up his glasses. This time, he donned a puffy winter coat and purple scarf, which looked completely ridiculous against Frank and McNamara’s thinner clothing. </p><p>“It seems you’ve already had the misfortune of knowing this bastard,”  McNamara observes sourly.</p><p>Florida raises a finger. “Yes! He’s...” Florida falters ever so slightly and gives Frank an inquisitive look. “A-actually, umm... I don’t think I’ve ever caught your name?”</p><p>“Frank.”</p><p>“Frank! Frank, Frank. You have to say it t-three times to remember, umm so I’ve heard.” The smile returns to his face. “It’s a n-nice name. I d-don’t know if you remember mine, but it’s J—”</p><p>“Can we get this over with?” Frank interrupts, “It’s not like I don’t have shit to do.”</p><p>McNamara shoots him a stern look. Florida frowns, but bobs his head. “Okay, so... I’m currently working with this k-kind officer to get some leads in The Frosted Man case. Y-you remember? We talked about it?”</p><p>
  <i>Holy fuck. This man was a moron.</i>
</p><p>“Have you now?” The officer asks.</p><p>“He was the one who told me about it,” Frank replies in the same cool manner before Florida can do more damage. “The night he came into town, I filled up his tank.”</p><p>McNamara gives a little noise of thought and writes something on his yellow notepad.</p><p>“Anyways, sorry... um... where was I? Right, right. So um! I’m working with Officer McNamara, great guy, um... Well, the g-gist of it is...” He taps the recorder on the desk as if to regain his train of thought. “This interview is being r-recorded, erm. I’m kind of his second eye i-in a way, and in return, I-I get to sit in on these i-interviews for work.”</p><p>Frank doesn’t know if he feels more sorry for McNamara or Florida. He decides he hates both of them equally and feels sorry for none. They deserved each other.</p><p>
  <i>“Fascinating.”</i>
</p><p>McNamara clears his throat. “Enough pleasantries. Tell me what you were doing on the night of December 21st. Please, spare no details.”</p><p>Pretending to mull over the memory, he gives a ‘hmm’ before he leans back. “Kinda a while back, but it was pretty much like any other night. We were all over at Susie’s— the girl with the pink hair— house and we fought over the movie to watch for the night. Eventually, we ended up watching A Nightmare on Elm Street.”</p><p>“That’s the one with J-Jason right?” Florida piped up.</p><p>Frank looks at him like he’s a fucking idiot. “No.”</p><p>McNamara rasped the table with his knuckles. “Proceed.”</p><p>“Anyways, after the film, we got into a... <i>heated discussion</i> about whether or not Freddy was a pedo.” He and his Legion had repeated this alibi like a mantra, it was one hundred percent airtight. “Then, we finished a box of pizza— pepperoni on one side, veggies on the other— and crashed.”</p><p>“And what time would you say you ‘crashed’?” The officer asked, flipping through what he could only assume were the testimonies of Julie and Joey.</p><p>“Eh, I wasn’t looking at the time. Probably one or two am.”</p><p>“That lines up...” McNamara mutters under his breath, no doubt thrilled. He addresses Frank: “And you said that you found out about the murder when Olsen told you?”</p><p><i>That must be Florida.</i> “Yep.”</p><p>“And who won the discussion at the end?”</p><p>“About the pedo thing? No one. We gave up. It’s like talking to brick walls.”</p><p>Florida was looking over his own notes, fiddling with his fountain pen. He then looks up with a bright smile. “Well! Seems g-good to me. Uh, now, can you tell us about... about the lodge?”</p><p>Frank frowned. “The lodge?”</p><p>“Sure! McNamara said umm, it’s where you and your friends liked to spend time. Did uh, you notice anything suspicious w-when you next were up there?”</p><p>McNamara turns his head to Florida,  raising a bushy dark eyebrow with mild surprise.</p><p><i>Shit.</i> “We haven’t been up there for a few months.”</p><p>McNamara grunts, looking back to the teenager. “That’s convenient. Maybe had you gone up there, the body would have been discovered sooner.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Frank shrugs.</p><p>Florida cocks his head to the side. “Why did you stop going?”</p><p>“Everyone got so busy with their classes— senior year, and all.” </p><p>“Your classes rough?” Florida sympathizes. </p><p>“Morrison doesn’t go to school here,” McNamara cuts in before Frank can even open his mouth. “He got booted last year.” Smugly he added, “He left in my cuffs.” </p><p>Frank rolls his eyes.</p><p>Florida blinks. “Oh, I see... I’m sorry to hear that. Then that must be terribly, erm, lonely, h-having to wait for your friends the whole day. You all seem awfully close.”</p><p>Frank’s jaw clenches ever so slightly at the unwanted therapy session. “It’s not a big deal.”</p><p>Florida seems to get the hint and shrugs at McNamara. “Um, these kids just seem like normal teenagers to me. Nothing interesting about them.” Frank shoots him a glare and Florida in turn gives him a sheepish look. “Um, sorry. No offense. I meant, in t-terms of suspects.”</p><p>McNamara still doesn’t seem too convinced. “You don’t know this one like I do. He’s a dangerous little psycho. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s thought about cutting us both up before.” </p><p>Florida looks offended on Frank’s behalf. “Now hang on—”</p><p>The cop turns to Frank, ignoring the reporter, and his voice drops to a dangerous snarl: “I <i>know</i> something smells here.”</p><p><i>‘Yeah, it’s your fucking breath,’</i> Frank retorts inwardly.</p><p>“You and your little brat pack might have had time to talk about what you were going to say, but that doesn’t mean you’re cleared yet. We know that there were multiple knives used.” He points the eraser end of his pencil towards the teenager.</p><p>“So?” Frank leans over the desk. “Anyone can buy a knife.”</p><p>There was a long quiet as the gears in the officer’s mind turned. McNamara scowls and rises. “You’re free, for now. But we’re going to be keeping an eye on you.” He marches his way towards the door.</p><p>“You need to get yourself a better partner,” Frank tells Florida when he stands up. He doesn’t look back as he exits. Maybe if he did, he would have noticed the reporter’s pleased expression.</p><p>The officer calls in Susie, leaving the two boys by themselves. Joey sits back down on the bench outside the door and pats the empty space next to him. Frank joins him, sitting with one leg over the other. Joey sighs and leans forward, clasping his hands together.</p><p>“About yesterday…” Joey starts.</p><p>Frank raises a hand to stop him. “I know. I shouldn’t have just walked out like that.”</p><p>“I should have tried to stop you,” Joey continues with a shake of his head, “I didn’t want you to think that I agreed with what Julie said. I’m sorry.”</p><p>If anyone was ever going to take a bullet for Frank, go down fighting for Frank, it was Joey. The junior and Frank had first met in world history, which Frank had needed to retake.  Frank took the only empty seat, one in the back, kicked up his feet, and looked at his deskmate. Joey had been gawking at him, obviously trying not to. At first, Frank assumed he was just some kind of fag, but later learned that Joey had just been impressed by Frank’s self-assured attitude.</p><p>Joey came to see Frank as some sort of mentor or role model, which was probably not a good thing. But Frank ate that shit up anyway. Good attention, bad attention, it never mattered to him. Joey’s undying loyalty kept his ego stroked and that’s what was important. </p><p>But right now, Joey’s apology doesn’t sit right with him. He can’t put a finger as to why.</p><p>He takes it anyway. “Thanks.”</p><p>Joey glances over at Frank gratefully. It must have been really eating at him.</p><p>“How’d it go?” Frank changes the subject, “They didn’t fuck with you too much, did they?”</p><p>The junior shakes his head and leans back. “Nah, I just said exactly what you told me to. But it was weird having them call me Mr. Lewis.” Joey makes a face. “I never want to be called that ever again. You?”</p><p>“It was fine. Just stuck to the script. They almost got me with that question about the lodge, though.”</p><p>Joey turns quizzical then. “The lodge? They didn’t ask me anything about that.”</p><p>“They asked me why we hadn’t been up there.”</p><p>“That’s weird,” Joey voices Frank’s confusion. “I wonder why they’d ask you and not me.”</p><p>“Because they wanted to catch me off-guard, probably.” Frank shrugs. It was better not to look too deeply into it— McNamara probably slipped that question to Florida in order to throw him off his game.</p><p><i>‘Not that it worked,’</i> Frank thinks smugly.</p><p>“Makes sense,” Joey agrees.</p><p>“We should go up there,” Frank declares. Noting Joey’s look of surprise, he continues: “If us staying away from the lodge is suspicious, fuck it. Why not? Don’t you miss it?”</p><p>“Well,” Joey is hesitating. “Sure. Of course, I do. When do you want to go?”</p><p>“Now. When they’re done with Susie. I can drive us all up there.” It’s a command, not an option. Joey should be leaping on this, but there’s a look of doubt on his face.</p><p>Joey doesn’t say <i>“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”</i> but he might as well have. Instead, he swallows and his fingers twitch nervously. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Then:</p><p>“Do you want to see something?”</p><p>Frank blinks in surprise. That definitely wasn’t the response he was expecting. “Huh?”</p><p>Joey stands up then. “But you can’t laugh, alright? Promise me you won’t laugh.” He’s never looked so serious. Frank lifts his hands up in mock surrender.</p><p>
  <i>“Christ, I won’t.” </i>
</p><p>Joey grins like a doofus and sticks out his hand, helping Frank up. In his excitement, the junior drops his hand and begins to lead, walking faster than the dropout. Frank takes this as a chance to take in the school— it looks exactly the same as when he left. Though, he’d be lying if he said he remembered which locker was his or what classes he had. How he’d manage almost an entire year in this prison was beyond him.</p><p>Finally, Joey stops in front of a case display and stares into it fondly. “What do you think?” He gestures towards it.</p><p>The case was full of pieces from various people in the honors art class. He vaguely remembers Joey excitedly telling him he had been accepted into the class. The pieces themselves are, well, Frank’s not much of an artist. Some of them just looked like people hurled paint towards the canvas and called it modern art. Still, he continues to scan them before he notices the one in the very center. The placard read:</p><p><i>Found Family.</i> Art on Canvas. Joseph Lewis, February 15th, 1997.</p><p>Frank stares, fixated. It’s them. It’s an almost realistic drawing of him and his friends, goofing off in front of their lodge. He recognizes it from a photo that they took almost half a year ago, back before Frank first discovered how easy it’d been to manipulate his group. They were all beaming from ear to ear. Frank was behind Julie and Joey, his arms around the both of them. Joey gave a hand-horn to the camera. Julie was pulling Susie, who was always shy about taking a photo, closer.</p><p>Frank swallows down the lump he didn’t know was forming in his throat.</p><p>
  <i>“Dude!” Joey had barked as he noticed Frank trying to sneak two fingers behind his head. “I’m gonna kick your ass!”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Frank gasped in mock offense and pulled Julie even closer to him. “The fuck, man? There are ladies present!”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Okay,” Julie laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Now I’m gonna kick your ass too.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Two against one, huh? That’s fucking cheap.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The four of them burst into a fit of laughter and released one another after the camera’s flash went off. </i>
</p><p>Frank can’t take his eye off the piece. Joey always loved to make art through his tags, but had he always been so good? He sees the other boy with paint splatters on him rather than blood. How hard had he worked on this without Frank ever knowing it? The artwork was dated more than a month ago, after all. Did Joey tell him about it and he didn’t give a shit? <i>Had he ever given a shit?</i></p><p>The happy kids in the art hadn’t lasted very long and it was Frank who changed that. And wasn’t that was he doing now? Still, trying to push them to be something they weren’t? Trying to make them more like him? Shit. Each of his friends had their own things they wanted to do with their lives, and it occurs to Frank that he doesn't know what they were.</p><p>He’s been so, so selfish.</p><p>“Here.” </p><p>Frank turns to see Joey offering him a folded photo. Joey had scribbled the date on the top of it: <i>August 28th, 1996.</i> “Here’s the original I used. I kept it in my wallet, but I’d like you to have it.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Joey smiles at him, warm and kind. It serves only to make Frank feel cold. “No matter what happens, we’re family. Even if we’re apart, even if we’re not there at the lodge, we’re together. Because we’ll always be the Legion.”</p><p>Frank takes the photo like it’s a delicate, precious artifact. “Thank you.”</p><p>The two boys walk back to the office, where Susie is waiting for them. As they leave, she tells them about how she was so nervous she almost said the wrong thing, but she had it don’t worry. And Joey laughs and says he’s not. Frank barely hears them over his thoughts.</p><p>The four of them were walking very, very different paths. Who was Frank to stop it? If this was what they wanted, he was going to respect that. It was the least he could do for what he’s done to them. But what about him? What did he want? Ghostface had already told him and Frank hadn’t wanted to believe him. But he’s not like his friends. He had never been like his friends. </p><p>
  <i>All he wants is to feel powerful again.</i>
</p><p>And he wasn’t going to get that from his Legion. Not anymore. The sooner he accepted that, the better. He had gotten the ultimate high and nothing was going to satisfy him the same way. </p><p>Joey was talking to Susie. “Frank said we’re heading u—”</p><p>Frank snaps out of his thoughts. “Wait.” They didn’t want to go. Then fuck, he wasn’t going to make them. Instead, he tells them he just remembers he picked up a shift for later that night, shit, he’s sorry. He’s gotta go. His friends accept his lie without a second thought. </p><p>
  <i>They were so damn gullible.</i>
</p>
<hr class=""/><p>He drives, listening to some mixtapes but the music doesn’t quite reach his ears. His mind is churning and all he can think about is his mystery caller. Ghostface knew things that no one else should know, impossible things. The stalker had also said <i>Frank</i> was the one that piqued his interest but what about his friends? Did that mean they were out of danger? If he kept his friends at an arm's length, would Ghostface leave them alone? Maybe it’s what they needed, anyway. Frank could stop hanging out with them like he was sucking poison out of a wound.</p><p>It’s funny. Frank would have never given a fuck before. Lived, died, who cared? What mattered was how they bent to his wants. Had any of his friends of the past pulled the same shit— trying to move on— he would have given them black eyes without another thought.</p><p>What was it about these particular three that made him so… <i>Protective?</i> Was it because they actually <i>liked</i> him? Maybe they just befriended him because he was the cool new kid, but they still hung around him even when he was kicked out of Ormond High. That’d been a first.</p><p>Maybe it was like Joey says. Maybe they were a family. Frank had never had a family before. Families were supposed to be a safe haven. Why the fuck would he need a safe place when <i>he</i> was the danger?  His hands tighten on the steering wheel. Family is too close of a term. He <i>hates</i> it. He hates how it makes him feel. <i>Like he’s soft. </i> </p><p>Most of the main route to Mount Ormond is blocked off by caution tape, but they’ve been up here often enough that they know alternate routes the police could never dream about. He weaves through foreboding pine trees and for a moment, he swears the song playing turns into static.</p><p>He parks the car outside of the lodge. It looms over him. Their home away from home, but even in the afternoon, its hollowness makes his heart race. When he steps out, the wind carries the rotten, foul smell of death. He isn’t sure if he’s just imagining it or not. He breathes it in, lets his lungs fill and he coughs it out.</p><p>It’s a thirty-minute hike to where the police have blocked off the burial site. He ducks under the tape, but there’s nothing there. The fresh snow has long since reclaimed the mock grave. It’s almost a bit upsetting. He would have liked to see his handiwork during the daylight— it’d taken them hours after all. He kicks snow over his prints before he departs back to the old resort.</p><p>Inside, the lodge has a strange uneasy feeling. There was a warmth here, once. He sees its remains in the tags and knife scratches the Legion left there. Now the chilly Ormond air made its home here, seeping in through broken windows. Frank doesn’t let the unease scare him off. He takes it all in, collapses into one of the big red chairs. It’s covered in dust and he darts up with a sneeze. It echoes through the halls. Over the fireplace, there’s a large mural that reads: “The Legion” in fading scarlet letters.</p><p>It’s where they got their name from. The mural depicts a group before them, nondescript in their features. The art style wasn’t as good as Joey’s, in Frank’s opinion. His Legion would sometimes find little artifacts from the time before, broken beer glasses, and faded initials of people he doesn’t know. What happened to them was anyone’s guess. Maybe McNamara had been one of them, once upon a time. He smiles at his joke.</p><p>He knows the lodge inside out, knows all the hidden little secrets. Frank goes up to the second floor. His hand runs alongside the large initials of FM + JK that was scarred into the banister. He and Julie had done that during one of their solo visits, it’d been her idea. Frank mocked her for it but gave in after she batted her eyelashes and said <i>“Come on, baby. It’s for a laugh.”</i></p><p>He pulls at a loose floorboard near the balcony that groans in protest. He’s rewarded with a few joints from their hidden drug stash. He lights one up, shoves the others in his pocket. A deep drag kills his growing nerves and he’s fine again. </p><p>He wanders a bit without much purpose. Most of the lodge, he realizes, had been thoroughly searched by the police. Many drawers that weren’t open before were wide open, same with the doors to closets. He clicks his tongue in annoyance. They hadn’t even bothered to clean up, those fuckers. Another drag.</p><p>He enters one of the bedrooms, and to his surprise, spies a bright purple mixtape sitting pretty on a drawer next to other random clutter. Guess the cops didn’t give a shit about any of the things here. But Susie would be happy to have her trash music back. He picks it up, blows the dust off it. His eyes drift downwards and he notices… <i>a cellphone?</i> It’s small and black but doesn’t have as much dust as the other objects. </p><p>After putting away the tape, he grabs the phone and inspects it. One of the cop’s, maybe? He flicks it open. One voicemail. It was dated only a few days ago, from a private caller. Surprisingly, the phone still seemed to be well charged. He fiddles with it, listening to the click-clack of the buttons that seem so loud in the silence. There were no contacts, no photos, no outgoing calls, and just one singular ingoing one.  He was back to the menu screen, staring at the notification.</p><p>Something urges him to listen to it. </p><p>So he does.</p><p>For a second, there’s only static. His heart lurches at the familiar raspy voice: <i>“Hiya, Frankie. If you’re listening to this, that means you’ve missed this place. Very good.” </i>His caller purrs and the praise makes his pulse quicken against his skin. So. It seemed his sweet ol’ Ghostie knew he wouldn’t be able to stay away from this shitty resort. How long had he planned for this? <i>“You feel it, don’t you? A darkness here, luring you in… Well, this phone is a gift for you. I hope when I call again, you’ll pick up...”</i></p><p>A click and the voicemail ends.</p><p>Frank can’t help it— he laughs. Holy shit, does he laugh. He laughs so hard, the laugh bounces back around the walls and engulfs him. He’d been read like a <i>fucking book!</i> Could he do nothing without Ghostface being a step ahead? He laughs until he can’t breathe until he hunches over and he’s holding his stomach and he’s still going. Was he <i>that</i> predictable? The joint falls from his mouth and he crushes it underneath his boot. He stops laughing abruptly, staring down coldly at the dying ember.</p><p>
Was the other man watching him right now? He makes sure to scream <i>“Fuck you!”</i> and throws up middle fingers high in the sky, just in case. He shoves the phone in his pocket and it clatters against the mixtape. <i>A fucking darkness…</i> Was that supposed to be poetic or some shit? It was the stupidest thing he’s ever heard! This was just a fucking scummy ass tourist trap that never made it off the ground!
</p><p>But even as he tells himself that, he’s trembling. He can feel it. It lurks inside him, waiting with thinning patience. His hands flex. It’s inescapable. He knows that now. Frank will never be like his <i>family,</i> he’s too far gone for that. He lights up another joint and falls back on the bed. The patterned covers smell musty and his fingers brush against a spiderweb. What a fucking mess. </p><p>It’s dark by the time he comes to, not from sleep but from a daze. Despite telling himself he wasn’t going to, he quickly checks his phone and a wave of disappointment washes over him at having no missed calls. No nothing. <i>That bastard.</i> The lodge is pitch black and he barely stumbles his way out, back to his car. </p><p>Even when he goes home, hears Clive’s grunt of a greeting, he feels he left himself back up the mountain.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">chapters 5 + 6 were originally one big chapter but I couldn't justify one insanely long chapter so i split it in half.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">thank you as always to megidola for beta reading this fic !! i appreciate u so much ;w;</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. No New Voicemails</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Two days have passed and it’s given Frank plenty of time to think. Most of his thoughts were hazy, due to the pot he smoked and some of the valium he took from a half-empty bottle he still had from a few months back, stolen from one of his former classmates. His mind had become a victim of deep fog and if you asked him to tell you what he had been thinking about he wouldn’t be able to say. It didn’t matter. What did matter was this: the little black cell phone he’d been given hasn’t rung once. In between the blurry memory of time, he could vividly remember checking his new gift. Waiting for a sign, for <i>something.</i> But there had been zero missed calls and no new voicemails.</p><p>It irritated him greatly. He had been intrigued by his mystery caller’s praise, by the words that weighed on him heavily, but now? Now he was left feeling incredibly stupid. Frank didn’t like to feel stupid and if Ghostface was half the stalker he’d claim to be, he’d <i>know</i> that.</p><p>So it occurred to Frank that next morning when he came to and rose like a zombie from his latest bender, that he shouldn’t be the one twiddling his thumbs. Frank Morrison didn’t wait around for anyone. No matter where he lived, people were there to dote on him like he was the king of fuckin’ England. Ghostie should be the one on his hands and knees, grateful to have even the <i>slightest</i> of Frank’s attention. Because as each new second passed, Frank could feel it running out rapidly.</p><p>But Ghostface was right about a few things.  Killing that stupid fucking janitor had felt good. <i>Real good.</i> Frank never had much in this dog-eat-dog world. Until that night. That night, he owned a human life. It was an indescribable euphoria that was a mixture of victory and power. And there was no more use beating around the bush— not when vivid images seemed to plague his mind at every turn. Frank wanted to have that feeling again. And why should he fucking deny himself? Because he could get caught? <i>Oh please.</i></p><p>This town was completely, one hundred percent, idiotic. The Legion had pretty much already gotten away with it. There was one stupid cop breathing down his neck, but so what? He could end that easily. <i>Very easily.</i> Frank is staring at himself in the mirror, staring into dark hollow eyes, as empty as the lodge. He couldn’t even place them as his own. Whatever’s left of his desire to be like his friends is long gone. In its place, is an insatiable hunger.</p><p>If Frank wanted to feel that high again, he didn’t have to sit around for <i>someone else</i> to show up on the fucking news. He could get it himself. He was a wolf staring down at a herd of clueless sheep. And he had <i>so</i> many options. The only difference between then and now was his lack of a pack, and although his heart lurched as the thought of being alone, he shoved that feeling deep down like he always did.</p><p>It had become clear to Frank that he could not count on anyone. Not the Legion. Not Ghostface. No one but himself. And he didn’t need a whole week to commit the crime, just one night. It had been an impulsive decision last time, but he could plan it out thoroughly this time around. Frank spins his knife expertly in his hand, watching his reflection do the same. His reflection’s lips twitch upward. </p><p>Yeah. <i>Yeah.</i> He can see himself running a blade through that stupid cop and permanently shutting him up. He wished he knew what Ghostface looked like, so he could picture the expression on his face when Frank struck first. When he showed up on the news again. Even if he didn’t take the credit for the latest murder— since there might be a chance it would bite his friends in the ass— Ghostface would know that it was him who did it. The thought causes Frank to practically preen— which looked slightly ridiculous with his unwashed, unkempt bedhead and the sleepwear he was wearing at two twenty-five in the afternoon. Frank pauses in his preemptive gloating, giving himself a quick sniff.</p><p>To his dismay, he smells like he’d been living in a boy’s locker room for the past year. Alright, first things first: shower, then murder.</p><p>Frank stays in the shower a little longer than necessary. He always takes them a little too hot, which makes Clive pissy about the bill, but who gave a shit about what he thought? It was a luxury for Frank and he lapped up every minute of it. There had been so many homes with only cold water or homes that barely had enough running water for a quick five-minute shower. The scalding little droplets rolling down his skin causes him to tilt his head back, letting it cover every inch of him. It soothes the muscles he didn’t even realize were sore. </p><p>His eyes slip close as hands press against his face and slide to the side. The silver barbell of his eyebrow piercing flicks ever so slightly from the movement. He thinks of his future crime, thinks of all the ways he can track his victim down. The person he’s following down an alleyway is a black shape, nothing more. He gets closer and closer and the person seems none the wiser. It’s only once he’s close enough does he see— not the cop, but his lackey of a reporter. He feels his arm rise, brandishing a weapon of some kind. The man’s face contorts in horror and Frank lets his eyes flutter open. Huh. Something about that didn’t feel right.</p><p>Frank thinks back to their last encounter. He had stuck out for Frank during the interview, hadn’t he?</p><p>
  <i>Why?</i>
</p><p>Frank could list the adults he trusted on one hand— that is, he wouldn’t lift a single finger. Yet… Florida could have easily kept his mouth shut when McNamara was shit-talking him, but he butted in. Or at least tried to. No one was just nice without a reason though. Did the reporter want to stay on Frank’s good side? Maybe he wanted to get more intel off him? He snorts at the thought. That guy was way too trusting for his own good. Frank could tell him anything and he’d probably eat it right up. </p><p>Wait a second. He contemplated that. <i>‘Frank, you genius you.’</i> There was no sense in killing Florida, but he could use him. The reporter must be desperate for information if he was working alongside Officer Douchebag, he could say he had something that might interest him. He could throw him off the trail of the Legion. Maybe exchange it for the cop’s address while he was at it— if he was lucky, he could kill him tonight. He shuts off the water, which causes the pipes to make a protesting screech. He stays there just a bit longer, letting the steam engulf him. </p><p>It’s only a few hours later that he enters the little coffee shop, the bell chiming its welcome. The cashier pretends to perk up, but Frank ignores her and she’s back to reading her magazine. The music is tolerable, playing more current hits that Julie knew every line to. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his varsity jacket, eyes scanning the area. It all looks pretty generic— like it's trying so hard to be cool and authentic that it comes off as just the opposite. The walls are olive green, the floor tile cream, dark wood tables that are always too tiny, and framed abstract art that has no real meaning.</p><p>There aren't many people here, so he can pick out an ugly green plaid shirt and black horned glasses immediately. The reporter seemed to be fixated on his little notepad and hadn’t noticed Frank. Florida had been delighted to get his call, thanking him over and over for his help and blah blah blah. It’d been Florida who suggested this place, and honestly, it looked like he fit right in. </p><p>Actually, thinking about it, he just had that kind of face. The kind that looked like it could belong anywhere. It was conventionally bland, though he was sure most girls would find it attractive if it belonged to anyone else— it was pale and a little long, without a single blemish besides a single birthmark under his lip, a sharp jaw, and dark eyes that were like a black hole.</p><p>It’s not until Frank approaches him that Florida finally notices him, that dopey smile coming back full force. “Oh, hiya Frank!” He rises off his seat, sticks his hand out. “I gotta say, I was a little surprised to get your, erm, call.” </p><p>Frank sits down across him and doesn’t take his hand. Florida lingers just a little too long, before pulling back his hand and sitting back down. The overly sweet smell of coffee from Florida’s mug somehow managed to overpower the reporter’s strong cologne. Frank’s nose crinkles.  “Yeah, I bet.”</p><p>“Can I get you something?” Florida tries, “A coffee, maybe?”</p><p>“I’m good.” Frank was never much of a coffee or tea person.</p><p>Florida’s smile falters, probably tired of holding that big grin, but doesn’t disappear completely. He taps his notepad with his pen, which had a chewed cap. “Sooo, I guess let’s get straight into it! You said you had some... umm, information for me?”</p><p>Frank props his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his palm. He can barely contain the grin that threatened to show. It was the best way to kill two birds with one stone— protect the Legion and pay back the bastard for not calling him. Conversationally he says, “You heard of Ghostface?”</p><p>That seems to get Florida’s attention immediately, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. For a second, he doesn’t say anything at all, just gawks at Frank. Finally, he regains his ability to talk, though it’s strained: “Erm, sorry. What?”</p><p>“Oh, so you’ve heard of him.” </p><p>“Of course I have!” Florida’s voice drops then, almost trembling. “I u-use to cover him. Back when I was in the states. He was never caught. How do you know about G-Ghostface?”</p><p>Frank’s eyelids droop. He had to be careful about how much information he gave away. After a moment: “He called me.”</p><p>“Are… Are y-you sure it was him? It could very well be a prank—”</p><p>“He told me things. Things no one else could know.” Frank allows himself the smallest of smirks, tilting his head further into his hand. “I could tell you what he told me, but I need something from you first.”</p><p>Florida gives him a strange look, one that Frank isn’t quite sure he saw, before it returns to worry. “Frank,” the reporter says pleadingly, “If he did call you, you should know. You’re in danger. B-big danger. All his victims get p-phone calls before they...”</p><p>Frank tries not to let his annoyance show. If only Florida knew— he didn’t come here for unwanted concern, he was here to get intel on his future victim. “I can take care of myself plenty.”</p><p>Florida shakes his head, eyes still wide. “No, Frank, this isn’t s-some petty killing like The Frosted Man.” Frank’s hand under the table clenches into a fist at the dismissal of his crime. The nails dig into his palm so deeply he knows it’ll leave marks, if not bleed. “If Ghostface is in town—”</p><p>“Ghostface murdered The Frosted Man,” Frank blurts out, just low enough for only the reporter to hear.</p><p>The silence hung heavy in the air. Florida’s mouth clamps shut, eyes scanning Frank’s face. Frank keeps his poker face. Shit. He meant to only tell him that after he got his information on that stupid cop. But he couldn’t just have the reporter thinking that his murder wasn’t something to pay attention to either. After all, throwing Frank’s crimes (past and future) on Ghostface, who’d been planning to kill anyways, was the perfect scapegoat. </p><p>“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Florida asks. His voice has become flat and deadpanned. If Frank didn’t know any better, it was almost like it belonged to a different person entirely. Frank’s heart thumps in his chest and for a second, he wonders if Florida didn’t buy it. <i>Was he less gullible than he let on?</i></p><p>“He told me himself. On the call,” Frank pushes forward with the lie. He couldn’t let himself crack, or else it was all over. Florida was still watching him carefully, almost like he was looking right <i>through</i> him. That’s weird. Frank was always a pretty good liar. No matter his reputation, most people would have readily accepted any of his false words without a shadow of a doubt. Guess he’d have to try another tactic. He frowns, letting his hand fall back onto the table. As defeatedly as he could muster: “You don’t believe me, do you?”</p><p>Florida’s expression becomes pained and his eyes dart from side to side. His voice returns to his usual tone. Hesitantly, “It’s not that I don’t…”</p><p>Frank sighs and pushes his chair back. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m just a delinquent who never made it past high school. Why should you trust me?”</p><p>He doesn’t make it out of his chair before Florida snatches his wrist. “Wait, wait!” Despite the warmth of the cafe, his hand was surprisingly cold. Almost like a dead man’s. Frank jerks away and Florida nervously returns his hand to his glasses, pushing them up.</p><p>“Look, it’s just…” Florida bites his lower lip lightly. “It’s just not Ghostface’s M.O. H-his way of operating, I mean. He doesn’t just stab people and leave ‘em buried. He likes to show off. I’ve… I’ve been f-following his cases for ages, ever since he struck my Roseville. He’s killed lots of people. Good people.” He swallows thickly. “Like you.”</p><p>Frank wants to gag. Florida was a <i>really</i> poor judge of character.</p><p>“B-but one day, he vanished. Like a ghost. We never f-found out who it was. Frank, <i>why</i> would he be up here in Ormond? It doesn’t make any sense, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Frank admits because it technically isn’t a lie, “And I know it doesn’t sound true. But it is. And worse, he told me something else. It can be a really big scoop for you. I need to get something from you before I can tell you what it is.”</p><p>Florida takes a deep breath to steady himself before he nods. “Okay. What is it?”</p><p>“You’ve been hanging with—” He catches himself before he can even utter <i>that stupid cop,</i> “Officer McNamara right? How long has that been going on?”</p><p>Florida tilts his head ever so slightly to the side. “Oh, uh... Just this past week, really. Why do you ask?”</p><p>“My friends and I want to get back at him for that lame interview he put us through. Nothing too serious. Just some toilet paper on his mailbox kinda thing.”</p><p>The reporter’s quiet as his eyes drift downwards, thinking hard. This worked out perfectly. If Florida was already on the Ghostface case, then there was no way he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity like this.</p><p>“That’ll show him, won’t it?” Florida finally says with a smile as he looks back at Frank. It wasn’t that big, wide grin he usually bore. It was like one of Susie’s smiles, gentle and natural. </p><p><i>‘It’s almost nice.’</i> Frank thinks in a moment of insanity. </p><p>“So, uh.” Frank is a little caught off guard by his thought. “Do you happen to have his address?”</p><p>On a fresh sheet on notepad paper, Florida scribbles it down and tears it off, extending it to the other man. “Here.” As Frank reaches for it, he pulls it back. Frank lets out an annoyed little huff that makes Florida laugh quietly. “Sorry.” He sounds apologetic. “But I have to do my job, you know. What did Ghostface tell you?”</p><p>Frank keeps a steady gaze on the piece of paper. “He’s going to kill again soon,” His eyes shift to Florida’s, but they’re unreadable behind those glasses. “In three days.”</p><p>He waits for Florida to reel back, to start shaking uncontrollably, to tell him not to joke like that, to be afraid. Instead, after a long moment, Florida holds the paper out towards Frank. This time, Frank snags it before there are any take-backs. He reads the address, once, twice to verify. This was a few streets from where Julie lived, he realizes, as he pockets it.</p><p>“Can I…” Florida has returned to fiddling with his pen. “Can I ask you something, Frank?”</p><p>He already got what he came here for. Frank shrugs, once again meeting those dark eyes. They seemed to swallow him whole. “Sure.”</p><p>“Why would he tell you this?”</p><p>“A bit of a cliched question,” Frank muses. <i>Because I’m bored. Because we both know what it feels like.</i> “But I have no idea.”</p><p>“Well… Thanks. I’ll look into this.” Florida sighs and shakes his head, probably thinking about how Frank just added a shit ton of more investigative work to his plate. “Just... be careful, alright?” </p><p>Before Frank can dismiss his worry, Florida takes a sip of his cold coffee. His next words send a shiver down his spine: “If he contacted you, I’m afraid he’s signed you up for a very dangerous game.”</p>
<hr class=""/><p>4903 Simmons Parkway was not as catchy as 45 Lampkin Lane, but Frank was certain he could commit a murder grisly enough to rival the fictional street in notoriety. It was hours later, late into the night. He had parked a street or two away— not close to Julie’s house— and had walked under the dim moonlight to his target location. Frank had changed into a dark leather jacket and had his blood-stained mask hiding his features. It felt <i>great</i> to be back in this get-up, like he was wearing his second skin. He hasn’t touched them since the janitor.</p><p>Both this street and the one over were connected by a grove of large pine trees directly behind the houses’ backyards, perfect for sneaking around unnoticed. This was probably how Ghostface was getting away with his stalking, but Frank knew he could do it better. After all, wasn’t it just sitting around and observin’ shit? He pulls up his hood, twirls his knife, gets comfortable, and begins to watch. </p><p>The cop’s house was rather big. Guess being a pig paid well. It was a two-story, like Julie’s. However, his walls were painted an ugly baby blue and his backyard was barren for the most part. He spies a grill and some chairs. <i>Yikes.</i> Like this guy ever had company over.</p><p>He perks up when he catches sight of the cop from glass doors. He seemed to be putting clothes in the laundry machine. Huh. Kinda boring, but alright. It was a Thursday, after all. A surge of adrenaline hits him anyway and he crouches to avoid being seen. He could get him now, part of him whispers. He could sneak in when the cop turns his back and make a bloody mess of him. <i>No. No.</i> He had to be more patient than that. Frank sighs at the rational part of his brain and continues to watch.</p><p>It was probably a good thing he did.</p><p>He can hear a loud <i>“Daddy, Daddy!”</i> and it actually startles him. The cop steps aside and there’s a little girl— shit you not, little dress and pigtails— rushing towards McNamara. His mouth falls slightly open as the cop gives a laugh and picks her up, twirling her like its a fucking film. He can’t make out what he’s saying, but it’s probably something cheesy and</p><p>
  <i>Aw, fuck. </i>
</p><p>He didn’t know McNamara had a whole ass household. He thought the man was a lonely fuck, who lived in a tiny house and did nothing but jack off to his police badge all night but <i>oh no.</i> So much for being lucky tonight. As he continues to watch, even pushes up his mask to see better, he can make out a lady in the background. Even overhears a barking dog. Un-fuckin’-believable.</p><p>Wife and a kid and even the little fucking mutt like he was the definition of middle-class suburbia. And listen, Frank may be here to kill someone, but he had <i>morals.</i> He couldn’t get McNamara here; it would be way too dangerous and he’d probably have to end up hurting them all. Even if she was the cop’s hellspawn, he doesn’t have it in him to murder a child. And especially not a dog, for that matter.</p><p>Frank lets out a quiet “fuck” and moves away, leaning behind the dark trees that covered him from view. He takes off the mask entirely, lighting up a cigarette in frustration. He wanted a simple quick slaughter, not all this dumb bullshit. Turns out if he was going to kill the cop, it was going to have to be when he was alone on patrol or something. This whole thing was a total bust.</p><p>Disappointment washes over Frank. He… He hadn’t really thought of a backup plan, had he? God damn it. Some murderer he was turning out to be. Oh yeah, he was <i>totally</i> rivaling Myers over here. Lampkin Lane who? Ghostface would probably tease him relentlessly for this if he knew about this fuckin’ disaster. Not that he gave a shit what that asshole thought, of course.</p><p>It’s a walk of shame back into his car and his dark impulses are crying from being left unfulfilled. He throws the mask into the shotgun seat, along with the knife, and glares at the rearview mirror like it was its fault. He grinds his teeth against the cigarette filter before putting the key into the ignition. A muffled chiming sound plays as the engine begins to rumble to life.</p><p>Frank nearly leaps out of his skin at the strange new tune. No way. Was it…? He scrambles for the glove compartment and sees his phone lit up with One Call Incoming and it’s a split second later and he has it next to his ear. “Hello?” He answers, a bit more expectant than he wanted to sound.</p><p>A familiar deep gravelly voice answers, sounding as playful as ever. “Wow, I’m impressed. That was only a single ring.”</p><p>Frank lets the cigarette ashes fall out his car window. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a complete loss after all. In a more composed manner, he returns with a “Hiya, Ghostie.”</p><p>“Hiya, Frankie. Hope you didn’t miss me too much.”</p><p>He smirks at that. “Try not at all.”</p><p>A disbelieving titter at the other end. “So, change of plans…” He’s slow and casual. “I’m going for it tonight. Saw you all pent up and thought, well, I can’t make this poor boy suffer another day.”</p><p>Frank’s eyebrows furrow. Ghostface was going for the hunt a little earlier than he told Florida, but that should still work out in Frank’s favor. The disgust he might have felt only a week ago was nowhere to be seen. In its place, there’s only a burst of exhilaration. “You were watching me? When?”</p><p>Ghostface sounds pleased by his enthusiasm and gives a little hum. “See, I had wanted to hear your adorable voice earlier. But whatever you took seemed to fuck you up pretty bad. Figured I’d wait to call when you were sober. Then today you were running around, doing errands… Couldn’t call while you were so busy, could I?”</p><p>“Fuck off.” Frank rolls his eyes at the term of endearment. It wasn’t serious, was it? Ghostface was just fucking around to rile him up? “I would have answered.”</p><p>A smile to his caller’s voice. “I know you would have.”</p><p>His words, the way he speaks them with such certainty, causes his pulse to quicken under his skin. There was a reason he’d been waiting for his caller to contact him again in the first place. Why he would pick up with ease. If he wasn’t going to get his solo kill, maybe the killer with an <i>interest</i> in him could use a Stu to his Billy. Maybe Frank didn’t have to be alone.</p><p>“If you’re going for it tonight, I want in,” The dropout demands, expecting a fast acceptance. When there’s no immediate answer, just nearly silent breathing, he lamely tacts on: “You were right… I <i>need</i> it. I want to do it again.”</p><p>“So what? You want to be my partner in crime?” Ghostface whispers, a sultry air to it that Frank doesn’t quite catch.</p><p>“Yeah,” Frank says without a trace of hesitation. He doesn’t realize that he’s dropped his cigarette onto the pavement and he’s gripping the phone just a little too tight. His heart is pounding wildly in his chest. If it meant feeling the warmth of blood again, if it meant feeling that raw power, he wanted it. <i>He wanted it so fucking badly he thought it would kill him.</i> “I do.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Ghostface says coyly, “I’ve done just fine on my own. What could you possibly bring to the table?”</p><p>Frank can’t believe this shit. Ghostface was dangling his prize right in front of him. “What the fuck, is this a job interview?”</p><p>“You’re the one who asked if I was hiring.”</p><p>“You called me first,” Frank sneers in an attempt to not sound more desperate than he already has. “Or did you forget that?”</p><p>Ghostface delivers a feigned hmm of thought at that. When he speaks, each word is drawn out. “But, how can I trust you won’t go around blabbing about our little talks?”</p><p>Everything crashes around Frank, disquiet dethroning his earlier excitement. There was absolutely no way he could know about what he spoke to Florida about in the coffee shop, right? He <i>definitely</i> would have spotted the stalker. He tries to remember who else was in the shop, but his mind draws a blank. He chooses his next words carefully. </p><p>“I wouldn’t. I’m not an idiot.”</p><p>“Is that right…?” Ghostface is quiet for a moment before his tone becomes sharp and menacing: “You know, Frankie. I hate liars more than anything else in the world.”</p><p>Frank has no response to that, his free hand sliding to his knife.</p><p>“If we’re going to be <i>partners,</i>” Ghostface chuckles darkly, putting extra emphasis on the last word like it was some joke, “I suggest we start with a fresh clean slate. So how about it, Frankie? Anything you’d like to confess?”</p><p>No, Frank opens his mouth to say, Of course not.</p><p>But… it’s this tiny voice in the back of his head that’s holding him back. If he was going to hang around a known serial killer, it was probably best not to get him pissed, right? He was playing Ghostface’s game now— and losing held high stakes. He doesn’t want to be the one in the obituary section. Or worse, the other members of Legion could end up in the murderer's grasp. <i>Fuck.</i> Fine. He fiddles with his knife, eyes shifting slowly to the darkness of the street to see if he can make out <i>anything.</i> As if he expects Ghostface to pop out of nowhere and end his life right there and then.</p><p>“I told Fl— a reporter about you,” he mumbles, “I told him you killed The Frosted Man.”</p><p>Ghostface lets out a <i>tsk tsk,</i> like he’s scolding a child. He doesn’t seem at all surprised by the admission. “Now, why on earth would you do that?”</p><p>He’s quick to think on his feet. “I wanted the heat off my friends.”</p><p>“That’s downright <i>noble</i> of you, Frankie.” The man on the other line lets out a throaty laugh, a little too quiet to be authentic.</p><p>“And you said you liked the attention, right?” Frank counters, not wanting to appear unnerved. “Now you have it. The Frosted Man is the biggest thing that’s ever hit Ormond. Once the reporter puts it in the paper...”</p><p>Ghostface cuts him off with a scoff and he can hear something shuffling on the other end. “Frankie, <i>sweetheart,</i> look around. Do you see Ormond scared of your pathetic attempt at crime? It’s yesterday’s news. The Frosted Man is nobody. No one cares when they have no identity. It happened so long ago, it’s just another little horror story to tell the kiddos. <i>My</i> crimes leave permanent scars on cities. Being the killer of The Frosted Man is a black mark on <i>my</i> record.” </p><p>Frank rolls his eyes at the complaint and drops the knife. So <i>that’s</i> what he was upset about? The fact that the crime wasn’t up to his standards? The killer better not be expecting Frank to apologize. It takes everything in him to not say <i>cry me a river.</i></p><p>“But we all do stupid things,” Ghostface says in a mockingly permissive manner, “So I’ll forgive you. This time. Pull that shit again and I’ll slit your pretty throat, you understand?”</p><p>His hand drifts to his throat subconsciously. Somehow, it was almost more terrifying when his caller didn’t sound at all threatening. He gives a weak acknowledgment of the man’s terms: “Yeah.”</p><p>“Great,” Ghostface’s carefree, as if nothing had ever happened. “I look forward to working with you, <i>partner.</i>” Another chuckle. “It’s funny. I actually <i>was</i> calling to invite you to tonight’s little outing… But you’ve hurt my feelings.” He can hear the other’s pout and Frank knows it’s complete bullshit. “And I don’t think that’d be fair to me, would it?”</p><p>“No,” Frank grumbles, fury clawing at him for being put on what was essentially a time-out. “It wouldn’t.”</p><p>“That’s right!” Ghostface croons, “What a clever boy you are!”</p><p>Despite his anger, Frank’s face burns at the sickeningly sanguine praise. There’s a familiar pooling in his stomach, like boiled syrup. It was <i>definitely</i> from embarrassment, yeah. “Christ... Shut up.”</p><p>The killer continues anyway, his voice growing soft and thin. “I know it’s hard. But I promise our very first kill will be special.”</p><p>Even as Frank wanted to slug the caller for denying him again, for even threatening his life, for belittling him with his weird pet names… Frank was stupidly, stupidly intrigued. <i>Special, huh?</i> Ghostface had all the charm of a snake-oil salesman, and to Frank’s twisted little fucked-up head, it was absolutely mesmerizing. In the way that a car crash was mesmerizing. It’s awful and dangerous and you know you’re terrible for watching, but god you can’t look away.</p><p>So Frank lets his shoulders sag and leans back against his seat. “It’d better be.”</p><p>“By the way, what size are you?” Ghostface inquires, conversationally, “A small?”</p><p>“Uh.” He blinks at the bizarre change in conversation but instantly becomes offended at the thought of appearing scrawny enough to be considered a <i>small.</i> “Fuck no. Medium.”</p><p>“Perfect!” Ghostface cheerily ignores Frank’s indignation, “See you tomorrow, partner!”</p><p>The line dies and Frank mulls over his words as he stares out towards the half-moon. It wasn’t <i>talk to you tomorrow.</i> It was <i>see you tomorrow.</i></p><p>There was no turning back now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">my brain on a loop the entire time writing this: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGfKb5winmc&amp;ab_channel=frenchythecoward">haha, nothing bad ever happens to the kennedys</a></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">ty as always to my beta reader megidola, for being so patient when i second guess myself ♥</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chasing a Ghost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Neil Hartman had fallen asleep by his telephone a bit past midnight.</p><p>He’d been on the line with his girlfriend for most of it— she had asked him to come over but he was tired from his long shift, so he told her maybe tomorrow. She fussed a little but it was all in good fun. They ended up talking about their day and when he finally hung up he made sure to tell her “I love you” and she returned it, his heart swelled because <i>god damn, wasn’t he the luckiest guy in the world?</i> And then he had drifted off to sleep with a big smile on his face, thinking about the day he could put a ring on that finger.</p><p>That night would turn out to be the biggest regret of his life.</p>
<hr class=""/><p>Frank’s phone rings during the witching hour, and although he’d been much too wired to be asleep, this time he doesn’t answer right away. He wasn’t about to let his new partner know that he couldn’t sleep because he kept thinking about him. About how he did it. About the unlucky fucker he chose as victim one. The upbeat tune plays once, twice, three times. His phone makes the final noise before it goes to voicemail, so he picks up and makes sure to sound like he’d just been stirred from a deep slumber: “Hello?”</p><p>“And here I was trying to get straight to voicemail,” Ghostface rasps, genuinely sounding apologetic. Frank ponders how sincere it was. “I didn’t think I’d wake you up. You’re normally such a heavy sleeper.” </p><p>“S’ok,” Frank murmurs, rolling over to stare out the window. Like he expects to see a black-cloaked figure staring back. But only the darkness of the night greets him. “Did you do it?”</p><p>“Of course I did. Told you I would, didn’t I?”</p><p>He acts like this wakes him up, fixating his gaze on the white of the ceiling. “Tell me how.”</p><p>“Now, now,” Ghostface laughs lightly, “That’s no fun. You the type to skip to the end of the VHS?”</p><p>“Let me guess,” Frank snorts. “You… <i>stabbed</i> them.”</p><p>“Wow!” Ghostface plays along, pretending to be awed. “How on earth did you guess?”</p><p>“I’m just that smart, obviously.”</p><p>“Obviously,” Ghostface purrs. Despite himself, Frank smirks. “Anyhoo, let’s meet at nine tonight. 220 Arnold Drive—”</p><p>“That’s pretty close to the base of Mount Ormond,” Frank muses, more to himself than to his caller. It wasn’t a neighborhood he’d often gone through. The people around there made little more than Julie’s parents but seemed to believe that made them high-class society. They were the type that would probably call the cops on him just for stepping foot on their sidewalk. So that’s what he meant by special, huh? Dangerous, more like. The thought causes him to buzz with excitement like he’d downed a whole case of beer.</p><p>“Very good! You know your streets! Now don’t fucking interrupt me.”</p><p>Frank rolls his eyes.</p><p>“You’re going to park a distance away,” his voice became serious and sharp, “This is a so-called uppity neighborhood, so your sorry excuse of a car will probably draw eyes. They don’t return home ‘till eleven-thirty tonight, which gives us plenty of time to learn the layout. Wear dark clothes and bring your mask.”</p><p>“They probably have security cameras,” Frank points out.</p><p>Tauntingly, Ghostface asks, “Chicken?”</p><p>“Fuck no,” Frank hisses into the line. It was just that the last thing he needed was the Legion finding out he was going on a murder spree with an American serial killer. No big deal. He just had to make sure not to show up on the cameras. Definitely easier said than done. </p><p>His response elicits a chuckle from the other man. “Then it’s a date.” Before Frank could protest that fact, he continues: “Now, try to get some rest. We have a shit ton to do later and I can’t have you slowing me down.” </p><p>With that, the line went dead.</p>
<hr class=""/><p>“Where the hell did you get that, anyway?” Clive’s eyebrows stitch together as he gestures to Frank’s cellphone. Frank had been impatiently flapping it open and close for the past hour or so, which was an hour or so too many for his foster father. He could barely hear the news over the obnoxious racket.</p><p>Frank doesn’t even look up, too busy staring at the lack of notifications on his screen. “Bought it,” he says, dismissively. The teenager was currently leaning against the kitchen counter, a paper plate with some crumbs by him. He’d been up since the crack of dawn, much to Clive’s complete surprise.</p><p>Morrison wasn’t a morning bird in the slightest— and this morning was absolutely the kind that would make anyone want to stay in bed. Light snow had begun to fall— even though spring had already begun and the sky was miserably gray. Clive himself had begun to fall back asleep on his easy chair when he heard his charge pacing up and down the hall.</p><p>“Steve doesn’t pay <i>that</i> well.” Clive snorts with disbelief and gives him a critical look. “What, you steal it or something?”</p><p>Frank closes the phone again. “I didn’t. Lay off my ass, alright?”</p><p>Clive turns his attention back to the weatherman. Of course, he wasn’t stupid— there was no way in hell his charge could afford something so expensive. And the way he kept checking it… He supposes a parent’s job would be to press further, to make sure the kid hadn’t started selling dope or something, but honestly, he can’t bring himself to care. As long as Morrison didn’t end up in jail or dead in an alleyway, it didn’t matter what his charge did. Clive scratches his stomach thoughtfully. This was the last year he could legally cash in on him, anyway. So really, was there a point in trying to pry?</p><p>At the lack of response from his foster dad, Frank’s shoulders release a tension he didn’t know he had. He seriously didn’t need Clive trying to step up to the plate and act like an actual dad; the thought alone makes him want to vomit. Still, anyone would have asked questions if they saw him flaunting around such an expensive item. He just couldn’t help himself— checking it so often had formed itself into a habit, though he knew that Ghostface had no reason to call. </p><p>Frank wonders if the killer was passed out somewhere, tuckered out from his crime. It was hard to imagine, mostly because when he pictures him, he thinks of the character from Stab.</p><p>But there was a person underneath that mask. Someone who needed to sleep and eat. It was surreal to think about. How many times had he passed the unmasked killer on the street? It was frustrating that Ghostface knew so much about him and Frank knew so little in return. If he knew his horror movies, which he did, the killer would be silent the entire time they met up in person. Which meant that Frank probably wouldn’t be able to get any clues on who his mystery caller was. He’d just have to pay close attention to his mannerisms, then.</p><p>An urgent tune plays from the television and jerks him out of his thoughts. In bold, white letters the screen read: BREAKING NEWS. Frank perks up as Clive grumbles, “Shit, now what?” When his foster dad turns to him, he returns to his bored, neutral expression. “Morrison, get over here.”</p><p>Frank obliges, dragging his feet over. “It’s probably some more shit about The Frosted Man.”</p><p>Before Clive can reply, the news lady appears on the screen. It was the woman who broke the news on the previous murder, Frank realizes. She’s wearing a red power suit and is all dolled up. His eyes narrow. Last time, he had to search her face to see any hint of fear, but this time she’s completely perturbed. She can’t even keep a brave face— her mouth pursed and her eyes watery.</p><p>“Ormond has fallen victim to y-yet another murder. Police discovered the body of Mindy Johansen, a twenty-two year old nursing student, in her home at around eight this morning. A photo of the crime was sent to our station and several newspapers, showing the perpetrator to be the American serial killer— Ghostface.” Her expression becomes somehow even grimmer: “What we’re about to show is incredibly disturbing, so please view with caution.”</p><p>The furniture in the photo was eerily in place like there’d been no struggle at all. Green shards on the ground were mixed with bloodied popcorn. The victim was thrown over a couch, her arms strewn above her head, legs spread, her brown eyes stared lifelessly into the camera, and her lips still parted from screaming.  She looks… vaguely familiar.</p><p>Most of the photo was censored and blurred, and it was hard to make out any of the details that could be considered disturbing. It was like one big ‘fuck you’ to Frank.</p><p>Behind her was the murderer himself, dressed in black with an elongated white mask that resembled a ghost wailing. He was hunched over to fit into the frame, so Frank couldn’t get a good look at his costume, but he could tell it was a different version from the film. He had one arm snaked around her neck, holding up her head so it was pointed towards the camera. The other hand, which gripped a bloody knife, had two fingers up in a peace sign. </p><p>As quickly as the image appeared, it was gone. Disappointment crashed into Frank. That… <i>that was it?</i> Did he wait all this time for a five-second still image? The news reporter continues to speak, she’s even trembling, but he can’t hear her over the roaring in his ears. Clive doesn’t notice when his charge goes back to his room, too engrossed in whatever she’s saying.</p><p>Frank closes the door behind him with a loud sigh. He makes his way to his bed and pauses suddenly— there, over his undone bedsheet, was a newspaper. Goosebumps breaks out of his skin as he slowly picks it up, his heart pounding so loudly he’s afraid it’ll burst through his chest. It was a special edition of the Roseville Gazette. <i>Isn’t that where Florida worked?</i> He moves to the window, squints, and peers out— but of course, there was nothing. He makes his way to the corner of his room, shoves the dirty laundry off his chair, and plops down.</p><p>
  <i>Ghostface had been in his room. </i>
</p><p>Frank’s hand ran through his hair. How the fuck did he sneak in without anyone…? How easy had it been for him? How easy would it have been for the man to sneak up behind him and Clive? He wasn’t scared or anything, he just... He swallows as he forces himself to read the headline:</p><p> <b><i>AMERICAN SERIAL KILLER STRIKES SMALL CANADIAN TOWN!</i></b></p><p>
  <i>“Terror seizes Ormond as only two weeks after The Frosted Man’s discovery, another gruesome murder has been committed. A photo sent to the Roseville Gazette by an unknown source shows not only the scene, but the culprit, believed to be the wanted American serial killer, Ghostface. Whether or not this is a copycat is unknown at this time.”</i>
</p><p>Frank’s eyes meticulously scan each line, absorbing the inked letters as if they held the secrets to the universe. The victim’s name was Mindy Johansen, twenty-two, a hard worker, beloved by family and friends. The paper went into more detail than the tv station did:</p><p>
  <i>“She was a gentle girl with a big heart who longed to help others. When she wasn’t working at the diner, she was studying hard at Ormond College’s nursing program. Her boyfriend Neil Hartman told the Roseville Gazette: ‘All she ever wanted to do was take care of others. To have such a kind soul taken away like that is absolutely heartbreaking.’”</i>
</p><p>He recognizes her smile first, in the photo on the side of the article. It’s big and dazzling and makes her eyes crinkle a little. <i>The diner.</i> That’s how he knew her. He’d seen her get one of Ghostface’s calls, hadn’t he? He never really gave her a good look, but the before-death photo preserved her as a beauty. Curly black locks, cherry red lips, brown eyes that still held warmth. </p><p>It’s the headlining photo that captures his attention. It was the same as the news showed, but not as censored. He could look at it for as long as he wanted now. A shiver runs up his spine as he notices the multitude of stab wounds around her chest, arms, and sides. The center of her throat had been attacked as well. It was eerily similar to the janitor, except exaggerated like it was all just some big joke, as the Legion had only stabbed him four times.</p><p>So he was taking credit for the crime after all. The rest of the Legion were free, off the hook. His hand twitches as if grasping his knife. He’d only gotten one hit into the janitor, but now he finds himself wishing he had done more damage.</p><p>That wasn’t to say it completely matched The Frosted Man’s murder. After all, they never sliced his stomach wide open. Ghostie’s own addition, a professional and precise cut amongst the amateur antics of the frantic little stabs. He’s fascinated by the contents of her insides and the pile of red organs he can’t identify pool at her feet, covering her shoes, but this detail was rightfully blurred out. Part of him wishes none of it was censored. He continues to read:</p><p><i>“Ormond police officials believe that due to the similar stabbings, this is the second crime done by Ghostface. However, this one seems to have been better planned and much more violent.”</i> Frank rolls his eyes. <i>“Police Captain Roger Frasier was quoted as saying: ‘The best thing to do right now is to stay inside, lock your doors and windows, and stick together.’</i></p><p>
  <i>The community mourns the loss of such a bright young woman. All we can do now is hope the serial killer will be apprehended before any more innocent lives are lost.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>- Jed Olsen.”</i>
</p><p>He studies the photo again, stares into her dead eyes. There was something so captivating about them. His eyes slip close and when he reopens them, he’s outside her home. The sky is as dark as her eyes. The moon has covered itself with clouds, afraid of what it was going to witness. She passes her kitchen window, holding a green bowl of popcorn, and he crouches down before she can spy him. She’s on the phone, chatting to who cares?</p><p><i>Thump, thump, thump.</i> His heart is slamming itself against his chest, but he’s not afraid. He’s never been afraid of this. It’s what he was made for. He’s been watching her for a long time now. He knows every single movement, every single part of her schedule. He wraps his hand around tighter against his knife. Thrilling. For the first time in a long time, he’s fucking thrilled.</p><p>The moment she leaves the area, he makes his move. He sneaks through her backdoor. It takes him only a moment to unlock it. Ormond had some of the shittest security systems he’s ever seen, because it was <i>such</i> a safe neighborhood. A wicked smile comes to him then. Let’s see how safe it was after he was done with her.</p><p>He steps as if he’s walking on air, each step controlled and calculated. He pauses as she hangs up the phone, settles on the couch. Her focus is on her film, some cheesy little romance. It’s not her fault she’s so unaware, really. He’s just so much better than her. He studies her for a moment, watches her chest rise and fall.</p><p>She’s very pretty.</p><p>She’d look prettier dead.</p><p>His breaths become short, desperate, and he struggles to keep himself quiet. She turns her head towards his direction, puzzled. He slaps a gloved hand against his mouth. He can’t be careless. Not now. Not when he’s so, so close. She shrugs after a moment and he spies Molly Ringwald on the screen.</p><p><i>‘Patience is a virtue,’</i> he scolds himself, inwardly. He can’t be too eager now. His grip on the knife relaxes ever so slightly and he waits until she’s engrossed in her film before he moves again. He looms behind her now. It’s her discovery of him that’ll make this all worth it. </p><p>It doesn’t take long before she sees a white mask reflecting on the television screen. She whirls around, screams, and he raises the knife. He brings it down into her throat and she chokes on her blood and he shudders as he pulls it out. Blood sprays him, sprays her. Her hands fly to her throat and he can tell she’s trying to keep yelling but her vocal cords are done for. The bowl shatters noisily to the ground, scattering into a million pieces.</p><p>She can only stare at her assailant, the light beginning to fade but it’s alright because she’s not dead yet. He raises the knife again and she makes a feeble attempt to dodge, but he snatches her arm and she spazzes and his breathing becomes shaky and shallow as he continues to stab her body. He doesn’t keep count, keeps going as she wiggles and writhes, and then when he gets tired of that, he approaches her front.</p><p>Her lips attempt to form what he can only guess is going to be a ‘please’. She never stood a chance. His handiwork is messy, but <i>god</i> it’s like ecstasy. It just needed one finishing touch. </p><p>Tightens the grip once more and opens her chest with a swift strike. A wordless scream and he brings the knife down, down, down until there’s a gaping wound and her head falls and her innards spill all over his shoes and his hands feel sticky with her blood. A groan escapes his lips then. The knife falls from his hand, blood seeping off it. He takes a moment to catch his breath, to compose himself. And… <i>wait.</i> He looks at his hand, covered in thick blood. It barely stands out against the darkness of his glove, but yet he still feels it perfectly. Dazed, he brings it to his face to inspect it better. </p><p>A shock electrifies his bones and he’s back on his chair, gasping for air. The color of the blood was drained completely, instead leaving a sticky white liquid. In the corner of his eye, he swears he sees a bright light flash. His euphoria was long gone, replaced by a spike of shame and disgust. <i>No way.</i> Her smiling portrait is covered in his seed. He crumples it up and hurls the soiled newspaper across the room. </p><p>What the fuck was <i>wrong</i> with him?! What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?! He wipes his hand clean with a tissue, shoves himself back into his jeans, fumbles with the zipper, before stumbling like a drunk to the bathroom. </p><p>When he slams the door behind him, Clive asks if he’s alright and Frank manages to yell out <i>“I’m fine!”</i></p><p>His stomach cramps and he thinks he’s about to puke up his guts. He washes his shaking hands once, twice, and throws water on his face. He stays there, letting the water drip from his face, hands grasping the sides of the sink. <i>Holy shit.</i> He’d been pent up, but he hadn’t… He swallows back his bile and just stays there, letting himself recompose. </p><p>Well. He straightens up after a long while. That seemed… like something that totally never happened. Something absolutely nobody needed to know about. Nervously, he thinks back to Ghostface. He didn’t believe in any higher power, but he was begging them right now: please let the killer have left ages ago, <i>please.</i> There was no way he could face him if he had seen that. Actually, Frank would really like to never see anyone again, if he could help it. There’s a reluctant little knock on the door.</p><p>“Morrison?”</p><p><i>“I said I’m fine!”</i> Frank snarls out, balling his hand into a fist.</p><p>“Don’t fucking yell at me, kid! There’s someone on the line for you.”</p><p>The world freezes into ice around Frank and for a moment, he doesn’t remember how to talk. That didn’t make any sense. Ghostface would have just called his cellphone, right? Why would he call the landline? He can already hear the man’s mocking laugh in his ears and there’s a rock sinking in his stomach. “Who?” He croaks out.</p><p>“Do I look like your secretary?” Clive snaps, before his footsteps recede down the hall. Fucker.</p><p>Frank debates not getting out at all, just letting the killer hang up, but eventually gives in. It’s a minute or two later when he has the phone to his ear and braces himself: “Sup?”</p><p>“Frank?”</p><p>He blinks down at the kitchen tile. Neither relief nor disappointment comes to him when he hears the feminine voice on the other end. He makes sure to sound calm and collected— he was still the Legion’s leader, after all. “Julie, what is it?”</p><p>“Did you hear the news?” Her voice is as steady as his. He wonders if she’s faking it too.</p><p>“Yeah. What about it?”</p><p>“Huh, I don’t know. How about the fact there’s a <i>fucking serial killer</i> out there? Who’s claiming he killed…” She trails off. So he’d guessed right— she was masking it well, but he can still hear the edge to her voice. He leans against the refrigerator. </p><p>“Good. Now everyone will be too busy chasing a ghost to pay attention to us.”</p><p>“It isn’t good, Frank.” Julie is stunned by his dismissal. “There’s some psycho out there who’s going to be cutting up more people. Do you remember that note you got? The one we thought was from the janitor?” His breath hitches as she continues, “I think GF stood for Ghostface.”</p><p>“Julie...” He hardens his voice warningly.</p><p>“What if we’re on his list, Frank? He left you the note and he’s claiming credit for…” She hesitates. “You know.” There’s silence on both ends for a moment. “I just got the job and I know Joey is still searching. We don’t have shit. We can’t leave yet. We’re sitting ducks.”</p><p>“Who says we have to run off?” Frank retorts, sharp. “We just have to keep laying low, that’s it. If we start panicking now, we’re just going to draw attention to ourselves. No one will suspect us if we act like good little kids, I doubt he’ll attack us. And if he calls one of us, we’ll stick together. No one fucks with the Legion, right?”</p><p>He can picture her shaking her head. “Christ, Frank, I know. But this is serious shit. The news was saying he’s suspected of at least twenty deaths in the states. And there’s probably more they can’t pin on him.”</p><p>Frank lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Jules, this is probably some bored asshole trying to be a copycat. You’re starting to sound like Susie, you’re stressing yourself out over nothing.”</p><p>“Fuck off asshole.” She doesn’t sound upset, that was good at least. “Fine, I guess. Just don’t do anything stupid.”</p><p>He smiles wanly at that. “Why do you think I’d do something stupid?”</p><p>“Because you’re stupid,” Julie replies and they share a laugh. Neither of them sound enthused. “Hey, uh. Listen. Since I have you on the line, I guess. Can we meet up at the diner in a few days? Just the two of us? I want to ask you something.”</p><p>“You can ask me now,” Frank reassures her, though he thinks he knows what she’ll say. It had to be about the dance. He pictures her in a bareback dress, under gleaming lights, dancing the night away like nothing’s ever happened. When he spins her, she has curly black hair, cherry red lips, and a diner uniform.</p><p>Quietly, Julie says: “I don’t think this is the right time.”</p><p>Frank couldn’t agree more.</p><p>They stay on the line a little bit longer. He entrusts her to tell the rest of the Legion what he’s told her. They talk about how gruesome the murder was, how horrible for the waitress’s family, and how freaked out Julie’s parents had been. Eventually, the topic shifts to her new job, but he has long since faded out of the conversation. His mind is a few hours ahead, of throwing on his mask and meeting up with Ormond’s feared ghost.</p>
<hr class=""/><p>Clive had gone out, tired of getting drunk in his chair and deciding to get drunk at a bar instead. Frank had even slipped him an extra twenty, said it was an apology for earlier. Whatever got the old fuck outta the house. Frank throws on a dark black shirt, then his black leather jacket, dark jeans, and even dark boots. Stealth was his middle name, baby. He flips the knife in his hand before putting it in its sheath. <i>It was time.</i></p><p>Following his partner’s instructions, he hides his car several blocks away. The trek wasn’t as rough as he’d thought it would be. The lights were off in every house he passed, afraid of showing signs of being home. Some cop cars were patrolling around, but he wasn’t a fucking amateur. He crouched behind bushes, behind brick walls, only moving when it was safe to do so.</p><p>This neighborhood was swanky— as swanky as a place in Ormond could be. By that, he meant they actually had garages and cobblestone walkways. <i>So this was how the other half lives,</i> Frank jokes to himself, as he breezes through the pine trees until he finds the house he was looking for. He checks his phone. Nine-fifteen. Not too shabby. Smugly, he realizes he beat Ghostie here too. He settles, turning his attention to the still-lit house. He can make out an older couple inside, walking through their living room. The man was balding and had thick glasses, while the woman’s silver roots were showing through her bobbed brown hair.</p><p>A gloved hand flies over his mouth and muffles Frank’s angry <i>What the fuck!?</i> He grabs onto his attacker’s wrist and tries to tear off his hand, shoving his elbow back into the other’s chest as he did so. His assailant drags him up to his feet, pulling him away from the light. Frank struggles against his hold, but the other was much stronger than he was. When the house becomes shrouded by the leaves of the trees, he’s easily spun around. Frank glowers up and is met with a familiar white mask. This time, he successfully shoves the man away from him.</p><p>“What the fuck was that about?” He spits. He can barely make out the figure’s shoulders, which shake like he’s laughing. The figure steps out from the darkness of the trees, allowing Frank a better look at him. Like Frank, he was dressed in pure black. However, instead of the classic costume he was expecting, he has on a jagged black rain poncho over his clothes. It’s probably easier to clean up blood that way.</p><p>“Sorry,” Ghostface says, in that usual raspy and jovial tone, “I couldn’t resist.”</p><p>Frank dusts off his jacket, grumbling obscenities under his breath before his brain catches up to what he just heard. “Wait, what the fuck? You can talk?”</p><p>Ghostface tilts his head at him. “No shit. You thought I was fucking mute? By the way, you’re late.” He walks over to one of the larger trees, crouching down and opening a black messenger bag Frank hadn’t even realized was there.</p><p>Frank can’t take his eyes off the other man. He was there, right in front of him, and yet it doesn’t feel real. The man was about a head or two taller than Frank and looked to be well-built. Nothing too bulky, but his physique matched his strength. The dropout hadn’t done shit to him during the struggle. Ghostface seems to realize Frank is still staring at him and glances at him. <i>Shit.</i> “I just thought since, in Stab, Ghostface doesn’t ta—”</p><p>“I stay quiet because I’m stealthy, and Loomis didn’t talk because his voice is like nails on a chalkboard.” Finally finding what he was looking for, he rises. “You expected me to just mime shit the entire time? Write you little notes?” </p><p><i>Yes.</i> “Uh. Guess not.”</p><p>Ghostface laughs and throws something at him. “Here.” Frank catches the soft bundle with ease, unfurling it to reveal a turtleneck. The killer points to his own neck. “It’s cute, but too easy to identify you with.” </p><p>Frank pulls off his mask, shrugs off the jacket, and is in the process of taking off his shirt when a bright white flash engulfs his vision. “What the fuck?” He glares at the killer, who was holding a small film camera in his hands. “Did you just take a photo of me?”</p><p>“It’ll last longer,” Ghostface purrs, inspecting the camera as Frank quickly covers himself back up with the new garment. The material is soft and breathable but having his neck covered up felt odd. “Nice tattoos. I like the snake.”</p><p>He hasn’t even been here for five minutes and he’s ready to slug the other man and leave. Thankfully, his mask covers the heat rising to his face. “Shut up. Also, did you sneak into my house earlier?”</p><p>“Oh! So you got my gift.”</p><p>“When the fuck did you get inside—”</p><p> “Are we going to be playing twenty questions all night or are we breaking into this fucking house?”</p><p>Frank deliberates for a second. “Breaking in.”</p><p>Ghostface perks up at that, gesturing for him to come closer. Frank hesitates for a moment before obliging. The minute he’s close enough, the American throws his arm over his shoulder and forces him into a crouch alongside him. He lets out an <i>oof</i>, from surprise rather than pain. Ghostface lifts a finger over the mouth of his mask to shush him. </p><p>“Meet Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan,” His voice is so soft and quiet, Frank has to strain to hear it. He looks back into the couple’s living room— the woman grabbing her purse as the man sat in front of the television. They seemed to be arguing about something. “True love, am I right? Does the guy look familiar?”</p><p>Frank shakes his head, causing Ghostface to let out a little hum. “Well, he’s a teacher at Ormond High. Strict as hell, basically zero fun. Except for the fact that he’s been sleeping with one of his students this past year. Crazy, huh? Anything for an A. And Mrs. Sullivan, well, she’s no saint herself.”</p><p>“What does she do?” Frank curiously asks, leaning in to try to get a better look. He didn’t take Ghostie as a vigilante. Did he just attack people who were secret criminals? The idea is pretty disappointing. </p><p>Ghostface turns his mask to him, growing deadly serious. “She stays home all day and watches the blandest fucking soap operas.”</p><p>Frank stifles a relieved laugh at that and the killer chuckles.</p><p>“So tell me, Frankie. You saw the news, you saw what I do. You still in?”</p><p>“Oh yeah,” Frank grins darkly beneath his mask. After all, why would he wimp out when he was so tantalizingly close? “Let’s fuck these guys up.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">don't sue me its still monday on the west coast</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">this chapter caused my beta reader megidola to roast me over when digital cameras were released :'(</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Ghostface and Partner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thirty minutes had passed and the Sullivans seemed none the more eager to take off. </p><p>Ghostface had sounded so confident about the time they’d be home, but Frank was starting to have his doubts. How could they be back at eleven-thirty when they hadn’t even left? Were they even going to leave? Maybe they were too pussy to go anywhere after the news. Honestly, he should have seen something like this coming. After all, how could someone call <i>everything</i> a person would do? The thought irritates him, only because that implies that he really was predictable enough for Ghostface to map out. Which wasn’t true at all. </p><p>His attention turns back to the seasoned killer— he obviously couldn’t see his face, but his body was still completely composed. He’s reminded of one of those gargoyles you’d see atop old churches across the pond, with the man sitting crouched and unmoving.</p><p>Well, <i>almost</i> unmoving. The killer had produced a black notebook from his bag, a blue ball-point pen, and would from time to time jolt something down as he continued to watch the squabbling couple. </p><p>“Observations,” Ghostface had hummed when Frank had asked.</p><p>“What kind of observations?” Frank had been watching them too and he hadn’t seen anything particularly noteworthy. In fact, he had gotten bored of their bickering pretty early on and had begun to pace around, bringing the blood back into his legs.</p><p>“Little things,” Ghostface supplied rather unhelpfully, “You can learn a lot about someone just by watching them in their day-to-day.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>The killer waggles his finger. “That’s no fun. Why don’t you tell me?” Ghostface prompted and Frank quietly sighed behind his mask. Once again, he stared back at the Sullivans and their home. From what he could see, the couple didn’t seem like anything extraordinary. They were that kind of couple you’d see wandering aimlessly in a Zellers, but their house was much more fanciful: big leather couch, a television that took up most of the wall, expensive lookin’ paintings, and exotic vases. </p><p><i>Uh,</i> but that wasn’t what he should be looking at, right? He should be looking at what they were doing? He focuses back on the couple. “Mr. Sullivan hasn’t even tried to console his wife… A little fucked up. He’s still watching the news. And Mrs. Sullivan is just a crying mess. The most blatant advertisement for a divorce lawyer if I’ve ever seen one.”</p><p>Ghostface laughs. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucked. Anything else?”</p><p>Beneath his mask, Frank furrows his brows. “They don’t seem like they should be living in such a fancy place. And isn’t he just a teacher? How can he even afford this place?”</p><p>“That’s not a big deal,” Ghostface hums, “This is Mrs. Sullivan’s family home.”</p><p>“Huh? How do you know?” Frank turns his mask to him in surprise. </p><p>“She does nothing but stay at home all day. They’re clearly miserable, but he stays with her. Oh, and look at her purse.”</p><p>She’s still grasping onto it and he doesn’t know shit about purses, but he can tell it's pricey. It’s black and circular, with a little golden symbol in the middle of it. “Gucci bag,” Ghostface explains, clearly pleased to be showing off for him, “Probably… early seventies. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Which means she must have had it before him.”</p><p>Frank stares at the purse. “What the fuck? You an expert on handbags too?”</p><p>The killer titters. “No, no. Not an expert, but in my line of work you end up researching a lot of things…”</p><p>“So if she has all the money, why the fuck is she staying with him?”</p><p>“Beats me.” Ghostface shrugs, returning to his work. “People are stupid.”</p><p>The two had fallen into silence after that. It was weirdly comfortable, considering his choice of company. It felt more like he was with the Legion, watching some stupid rental, rather than staking out potential victims. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, yet Frank didn’t allow himself to get too cozy. He still didn’t know much about the masked man. Even though Ghostface seemed to know everything about everyone. That fact bothered him greatly. He wasn’t used to someone else holding all the cards.</p><p>And for all he knew, Ghostface was intentionally trying to lull him into a false sense of security until Frank’s back was turned…</p><p>He stares at the back of the man’s head with heightened suspicion. Frank may not be as strong as the other man, but he still knew where to stab to kill. He wasn’t about to go around dying like a little bitch. If the serial killer <i>did</i> try anything, Frank would happily take him down with him. As if sensing Frank’s dark thoughts, Ghostface turns his head over his shoulder. Behind those hollow black sockets of the mask, the other’s eyes burn into him intensely. They don’t feel as kind as the silence.</p><p>“Like what you see?” Ghostface coos playfully, twirling the pen in between his fingers.</p><p>He scoffs at the stupid joke and shakes his head, before returning to his place next to the killer. “I could have stabbed you ten times over.” </p><p>“I would have loved to see you try,” the other killer says ruefully, like he was letdown that Frank didn’t actually go through with it. He perks up after a moment. “What if I pretend to not pay attention?”</p><p>“Nah, now you’ll be aware,” Frank replies teasingly, picking up a stray twig that caught his eye and inspecting it. “You’ll be expecting me.”</p><p>“Silly Frankie. Do you honestly think I ever let my guard down in the first place?” He returns, with only the slightest sinister shift in his tone. It was enough to unnerve the dropout, however, who glances back at the mask. It was still facing him, still tilted in that playful manner. But Frank isn’t stupid.</p><p>His words were a warning. <i>Don’t do something you’ll regret.</i> If Frank did try anything, Ghostface would be quick to counter him. That was a good sign, though. Ghostface wouldn’t have said that if he wasn’t unsure whether the dropout would attack him or not. That meant that he didn’t know <i>everything</i> about him. What’s more— he didn’t fully trust him, either. Even in the face of a threat, the thought comforts Frank. That meant Ghostface wasn’t all-powerful or all-knowing.</p><p>Frank keeps his paper mask on the hard white plastic of Ghostface’s as he flicks out his knife. The other doesn’t move at all, doesn’t say anything at all, but his chest rises and falls just a little faster. Fear? Excitement? He holds it up, his movements slow and taunting, before he puts the blade to the twig. And he begins to whittle it down.</p><p>Ghostface watches him a bit longer, before putting his attention back to the house. After a long moment, he says: “You’re missing it. They’re having hot makeup sex.”</p><p>Frank pulls a face at the thought of seeing two old geezers slapping skin, but morbid curiosity causes him to follow the other’s gaze. “Really?”</p><p>Annoyance washes over him as they were in fact not having sex. The lovebirds had moved their fight into the kitchen, which he could make out from one of the windows. Her hands hid her face, but her wracking shoulders gave away her sobbing. Ghostface laughs mockingly. “You horndog. That desperate to see some action, huh?”</p><p>Frank snorts in disgust and turns his attention back to his twig. “I didn’t sign up to be sitting around all night. Any type of action is better than nothing, at this point.”</p><p>“Is that right...?” Ghostface murmurs, deep in thought.</p><p>“Why do we have to sit around and stalk them, anyway?” Frank complains, “Between the two of us, they seem like easy enough targets. We could just kill them now.”</p><p>Ghostface replies, slowly and casually, “What would be the point of that?”</p><p>“Whaddya mean?”</p><p>“You can’t just go around killing people every single day. That would be so boring. Even the news would get burnt out. You have to let them wallow in fear, let it really sink in, before you can strike again.”</p><p>“So how long ‘till then?” Frank pulls a face, glad the other can’t see it.</p><p>“Two weeks.”</p><p>
  <i>“Two weeks?! They didn’t take that fucking long in Stab!”</i>
</p><p>“How many times do I have to tell you not to compare me to that punk-ass bitch? Or are you forgetting that he actually got caught? You know why? Because he was a dumbass. You wanna be a dumbass like him, by all means.”</p><p>Frank tries to stammer out a rebuttal.</p><p>Ghostface laughs at Frank’s obvious dismay, returning to a lighthearted temper. “Don’t worry, the thrill of the hunt is the best part. It’s so worth it, to see them start growing paranoid… to watch them start bolting all their windows and trying to disconnect their landline...” He breathes out a dreamy sigh. “Their face when they finally see you for the first time…”</p><p>Frank supposes it sounds promising. The janitor’s look of fear had been incredibly satisfying, after all. How much better would it have looked if he had known it was coming but could do nothing about it? Even so, two weeks was an awfully long time to wait. He stabs the sharpened twig into the ground.</p><p>“By the way, that reminds me. What should we call you?”</p><p>Frank gives an intelligent “huh?”</p><p>“Well, I can’t use your real name inside. That’d be pretty stupid, wouldn’t you say? What name do you go by?”</p><p><i>The Legion.</i> Well, no. He can’t use that. The four of them may have had a group name, but the truth was that they never used secret identities. Even in the middle of their petty crimes, they still used their real names. Which may not have been the best decision, now that Frank was really thinking about it. Too lost in thought, he doesn’t notice the other man watching him. After he doesn’t answer, Ghostface sighs impatiently.</p><p>“Alright, well. No big deal. I came up with Ghostface, after all.” The killer leans forward, causing Frank to pull a little back. He can feel the intensity of the man’s eyes on his. “Let’s see…” He was studying Frank’s mask. “How about... Smiley?”</p><p>“Fuck no.”</p><p>Ghostface gives a quiet noise of thought before brightly suggesting: “Chuckles?”</p><p>“Somehow, that’s even worse.”</p><p>“Well!” Ghostface pulls back with an exaggerated shrug. “I’m all out of ideas.”</p><p>“You literally only gave two options!” Frank exclaims in indignation. He rubs the back of his hood. “Jeez… We don’t have to make it overly complicated. If you need to shout something out to me, just say ‘partner’. I don’t need a fancy name.”</p><p><i>“Partner?”</i> Ghostface sounds surprised, which was new to Frank’s ears. There’s a bit of offense in his tone. “Ghostface <i>and Partner?</i> That won't sound good in the papers.”</p><p>“I don’t want to be in the papers,” Frank replies simply.</p><p>This time, it’s Ghostface who takes a moment to say something. He’s mulling over his words. “How interesting,” he says like he didn’t have a single care in the world, “And here I thought you liked the attention…”</p><p>A quiet glee rises in his chest at Ghostface’s words. He was hiding his confusion well, but Frank knew. “I like that my crimes get attention. But I don’t need my face or mask getting any attention. I live here, I’m recognizable. I never had plans to be in the limelight.” After all, if he was caught posing with Ghostface, his friends wouldn’t exactly understand. “I want them to still think you’re the only one acting. I just want to…” Frank thinks about the right word. “Participate.”</p><p>“How interesting,” Ghostface repeats in a murmur before he cheerily goes on: “That’s why I like you. You aren’t boring at all.”</p><p>Whatever Frank had been expecting the killer to answer, it wasn’t that. His stomach warms at the praise, but he shoves the feeling away as quickly as it appears. What was he even supposed to say to that? A ‘thanks?’ is on his lips, but he hates the idea of saying it out loud. He’s saved by the mechanical sound of a garage door opening and he returns to the Sullivans. “Oh shit!” He scrambles to his feet. “They’re finally leaving!”</p><p>Unlike his eager partner, Ghostface takes his time to rise. “Guess her crocodile tears worked.”</p><p>“Wait, what? She was faking?”</p><p>“Hmm, guess you didn’t watch all that well.” Ghostface tucks his notebook away inside his pants pocket. “Shame. You should have noticed that she kept peeking out of her hands.”</p><p>“That bitch,” Frank grumbles under his breath, more annoyed that he hadn’t caught that detail. He takes out black gloves from his jacket pocket, slipping them on.</p><p>“You stay here. I’ll open the front door for you,” Ghostface commands. Before Frank can protest that (“You’re just going to open the door?!”), the other man is gone. Frank lets out a quiet string of obscenities. Guess they didn’t call him a ghost for nothing.</p><p>He watches as the Sullivans’ red BMW rumbles to life and pulls out of the driveway. Inside, Mrs. Sullivan had no signs that she had ever been crying, just sat there looking all smug. Damn. Guess he knew who wore the pants in the relationship. Frank pulls out his phone to check the time: it was nearing five past ten. The two were more than an hour late to whatever the fuck they were supposed to be doing.
</p><p>It was another five minutes before the front door slowly swung open, inviting Frank into the empty house. There was still no sign of his partner. A burst of adrenaline surges through him then and he pulls up his hood even tighter around his face. He had this. It wouldn’t be the first time the Legion broke into a house. Making sure to double-check then triple-check his surroundings in case of nosy neighbors, he goes near the house with relative ease.</p><p>Frank takes a moment to wipe his boots on the welcome mat. He notices, as he enters through the doorway, that the cameras that were meant to be diligently watching over the house were slumped downwards. Off. How had Ghostface managed to…? He decides not to think too hard about it. </p><p>The first thing that hits him when he closes the door behind him is the smell. Christ. It smelled like Susie’s grandmother’s house. Mothballs and fucking potpourri mixing into one unpleasant concoction. It was worse than any stink bomb he’s ever set off. He gags in disgust, only to hear a chuckle behind him. He rolls his eyes and turns to his partner.</p><p>“Not a fan?”</p><p>“Old people smell is the worst,” he complains, only for Ghostface to hold up his hand over the gaping black of his mask’s mouth and laugh again. </p><p>“Poor thing.” He pouts mockingly. “I guess I’ll be nice and take downstairs. Go check around upstairs. We have… about an hour ‘till they come back, but I’d like to get out a little earlier.”</p><p>“How do you know they won’t leave early?” Frank counters.</p><p>Ghostface tsks. “After all that fussing the Missus did?” With that, he saunters off into the kitchen. Frank watches him go, the confidence practically oozing out the other man. And Frank thought <i>he</i> had a big ego. The thought makes him quietly snicker and he’s off to his target destination. </p><p>Upstairs, at least, was a little bit more tolerable. The stairs had been recently cleaned, he realizes, as he runs his hand alongside the golden-brown banister. Not a single trace of dust stuck to his glove. The second floor was ominously dark, with several rooms spanning the length of the hallway. He hesitates as his hand hovers over the light switch. </p><p>There was always the possibility somebody would be watching from the outside. Someone who could call the police. He inhales deeply. No. Now wasn’t the time to worry about something like that. He’d seen it for himself— everyone was too afraid to be peeking outside their windows tonight. With that in mind, he flicks the switch. </p><p>It takes a moment for the light to turn on, a quiet buzz of electricity and a flicker revealed it was on the verge of a fritz. Still, it does manage to get itself working. The illumination is dim, so either way, it’d be hard to see from the outside. He makes a mental note of this before trying the first door to his right.</p><p>Closet.</p><p>He flicks the light on in there, just in case. Unlike the one in the hallway, this one seemed to work fine. The closet was what you’d expect a closet to have: cleaning supplies and boxes of who-knows-what. There was also a loose pair of pink heels clumsily hidden away. Frank figures they weren’t Mrs. Sullivan’s, as it looked more in style with what Julie would wear. He turns off the light and closes the door.</p><p>The next few rooms were also not of interest. The next door, furthest down the hall, seemed the most promising. He swings it open and— <i>jackpot.</i> It was the master bedroom. Like the living room, it was overly decorated with expensive-looking trinkets. Frank whistles, noticing that they even had a big ol’ television in here. He’d asked Clive for one in his room before, even a small portable one, but his foster father had refused. Something about the electricity bill racking up.</p><p>He closes the door quietly behind him. From previous invasions he and his friends had done, he knew exactly where to start. The dressers on either side of the large king bed, of course. Each of the dressers had a lamp, but only the one on the left had a digital alarm clock. </p><p>Frank began with the top drawer in the left dresser, rummaging around. Nothing there. He wasn’t expecting to strike gold right away, but underneath the old fuck’s mess of socks in the bottom one there was… a silver cellphone. Well shit. That’s probably where he was calling his favorite student. Frank turns on the phone and making a mental note of the call history, inputs the number into his own. Could be useful for a future call. He makes sure to turn it off again and leave it right where it was.</p><p>Inside Mrs. Sullivan’s dresser, the only item that caught his eye was an overturned photo frame. He pulls it out and inspects it. “Christ. Can this get any more pathetic?” The picture was of the couple, a decade or so younger, in their wedding attire. Mr. Sullivan was feeding her cake, which is probably how she ended up such a lard ass now. He also notices, however, that the venue in the back looked pretty swanky. He puts it back where it was and rises to his feet.</p><p>That’s something he’s noticed. There were no <i>photos</i> anywhere. Usually in a house, as tastelessly decorated as this one, there were photo frames all over the place. It made the house feel less like a home if that made any sense. Like it was just being lived in, without being <i>lived in.</i> Not that it mattered, since soon no one would be living here anyway. He checks the rest of the drawers, but those two things were the only juicy items. A shame.</p><p>He slips inside the closet, closes it behind him. It was one of those doors that had slits, so someone could easily spot you if you were lurking in there. When he hides under the bed, however, he notices the quilted bed sheet draped onto the floor. This could be a good place to wait them out. Maybe Ghostface could chase them upstairs and he could get the final blow after they locked themselves in their room, thinking they were safe…</p><p>A faint gleam catches his eye from deep in the dark. He frowns and opens his phone to get some light. Under the bed was a baseball bat, and it was close enough for the Sullivans to be able to snag in an emergency. That was definitely not good. He can’t move it now, that’d just be suspicious. But he’d have to make sure to keep an eye out for it when they came back for the actual murder.</p><p>He crawls out from under the bed and turns off the light. It was time to move onto the next room. </p><p>That turned out to be a sewing room. However, something seemed off about it. It looked like it hadn’t been used in forever and he even sneezed from the dust gathered. The walls were a different color than the rest of the cream-colored house. It was baby blue. At first, there’s nothing here that stands out to him, but along the left wall… He squints, actually pulling off his mask to see it better. In faded bubbly letters, there was a single name: “Jonathan.” </p><p>Their son, maybe? But even if they were stuck in an unhappy marriage or whatever, why wouldn’t there be any pictures of their kid? Maybe he left for college and never came back home. He pulls back on his mask. Still, it was… weird, to say the least. They renovated his room and then just never used it? He hated to admit it, but he’d probably need to ask Ghostie about this one. Honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised if the stalker could probably give him a whole family tree if he asked.</p><p>Frank was wrapping up the remaining room, the guest bedroom in which it appeared that no one had slept in there for a long time, when he heard a sing-song voice call from downstairs: “Oh partner~”</p><p>He rolls his eyes at the taunting nature of the summons before he follows it down the stairs, through the first-floor hallway, into what could only be an office. Shelves of thick books stacked every wall, with titles such as “Canadian Law &amp; Order Vol. 4.” He highly doubted either of the Sullivans had ever read them. More importantly, Ghostface was waiting for him. He was sitting on the edge of the large wooden desk, with a few files in his hand.</p><p>“And here I thought you got lost,” his voice light.</p><p>Frank crosses his arms as he leans against the doorway. “Nope, you’re stuck with me.”</p><p>Ghostface lets out a breezy little laugh, crooking his finger to beckon him closer. Frank acts like it takes great effort, drudging along the multi-colored rug until he was a comfortable few feet away from the other. This only seems to amuse Ghostface. “Find anything interesting?”</p><p>“Sort of.” Frank relays his discoveries of the master bedroom to the killer.</p><p>“Ooh, nice idea. I’d love to give him a call on his secret little phone… He’d expect the teacher’s pet, only to hear me.” Ghostface props his elbow on his knee, his chin resting on his knuckles. “Though, I’m much better, wouldn’t you say?”</p><p>Frank makes a noncommittal grunt. </p><p>“You’re so rude, Frankie. Didn’t anyone teach you some manners?”</p><p>“Also,” Frank ignores his bitching, “I think they have a kid.” </p><p>Ghostface seems disinterested. “Mm, yeah. I figured.” He brightens and waves the files in his hand. “Wanna hear what I found out?”</p><p>Frank feels a spark of annoyance at the easy dismissal. That was the most interesting thing he found out and Ghostface didn’t even seem to care. Still, knowing the other killer would speak no matter what Frank answered, he relents with a “Sure.”</p><p>“Mr. Samuel Sullivan and Mrs. Tina Sullivan, née Boisseau.” Frank sniggers at the botched French name, but Ghostface grows deadly quiet and so does Frank. <i>“As I was saying,</i> I was right. Not that there was any doubt, of course.” </p><p>“Of course,” Frank agrees. Ghostface either ignores the light sarcasm or didn’t catch it.</p><p>“Her family used to have a shit ton of money, back in the day they owned some of the mines here. I say used to since it’s all but dried up.” He flashes the first paper at Frank, which came from a debt collector’s office. </p><p>“That’s why they look so cheap?”</p><p>“Mhm, they’re probably penny-pinching where they can so they don’t lose the house. Speaking of which, they don’t wanna lose the house because of their kid.” Ghostface shuffles his papers until he reveals a death certificate. “Kid died when he was five, back in ‘82. There’s probably a lot of great memories in here and blah blah blah.”</p><p>“Oh, shit.”</p><p>“Yeah. Oh shit.” Ghostface mirrors as he throws back the papers without much care, angrily continuing: “It’s annoying. A dead kid? That’s so <i>boring.”</i> </p><p>Frank listens under his mask, startled at the malicious tone the other’s taken. His heart drums, but he isn’t quite sure it’s out of fear. Though, what else could it be?</p><p>“What a lame motivation! It’s probably why they stay trapped together in their loveless fuckin’ marriage. It’s almost pitiful! We’d be doing them a fuckin’ favor killing them! Where’s the excitement in that?” A dramatic sigh escapes the killer’s lips. “What a waste of a night. Maybe we should switch targets, I mean, I have plenty to choose from.”</p><p>Frank stays quiet, lost in thought. “Well, I mean. I don’t think it’s a waste.” </p><p>The burning eyes of the serial killer are back on him and though he’s silent, Frank knows he wants him to continue. So he does, a wicked excitement building up inside him with each word: “They haven’t offed themselves for a reason, right? They’re stubborn as fuck. Too stubborn to divorce, too stubborn to get rid of the house, too stubborn to even sleep in separate beds. Imagine how it’d feel to stomp out their remaining determination. To know they wasted their lives being so fucking stubborn just for it to end so abruptly.”</p><p>The silence returns. This time, it hangs heavy in the air. Ghostface flings something at him and Frank catches it with ease. He opens his hand to reveal a small, golden elephant. For its size, it weighs heavily. “You’re right,” Ghostface purrs, his anger gone in place of that sickening benevolence. “What was I thinking? You’re so clever, Frankie!”</p><p>“What is this?” Frank asks, holding the small trinket in between his fingers. It shone brilliantly.</p><p>“Oh, I dunno. I found it on the desk. You can have it. Consider it a little souvenir from a job well done.” Frank shrugs and slips it into his pocket as Ghostface steps down from the desk. “I think we have all we need for tonight, why don’t we clean up and call it here?”</p><p>“What’s next?” Frank presses.</p><p>“Well,” Ghostface taps his finger against the hard plastic chin. “I’ll probably be here most every night. And of course, keeping an eye on the Sullivans whenever I can during the day. I know the stalking bores you, so I can call you when—”</p><p>“No,” Frank cuts in quickly. Like hell he was just going to sit around! What if something happened while Frank wasn’t there? Besides, this night had turned out to be way more intriguing than he imagined. “Just let me know when you’ll be here. I’ll meet up with you if I can.” </p><p>“Sure,” Ghostface gives a little shrug. “Whatever floats your boat.” He sounded nonchalant, but Frank could hear the faintest satisfaction in his words.  “Now,” he gestured to the strewn papers. “Let’s clean this shit up, yeah?”</p><p>Just as Ghostface had said, the Sullivans made it home at just about eleven-thirty. The two killers watched as they exited the car, bickering about who knows what, as they entered their home. Frank waited for someone to scream, to notice something out of place, but there was nothing. Of course, the two killers had simply vanished like ghosts. The Sullivans take their argument upstairs, where their watchers lose sight of them. Ghostface gathers his bag and gives a farewell, but even as Frank gets back into his car, there’s no sign of anyone else making their getaway. </p><p>It’s nearly midnight when he returns home. He sets his phone and elephant on his bedside dresser and takes a moment to admire them both. It’s not until he sinks under the covers does he realize how fucking <i>tired</i> he is and for the first time in months, he falls fast asleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <span class="noted">finally!! i get to write ghostie &amp; frank interactions!! this chapter sort of reminds me of ace attorney or dangaronpa, with our two favorite killers becoming murderous investigators. well, you can't work with a stalker without some stalking. big thank you again to megidola for helping me the beta read!</span>
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        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Rentals are Due in Ten Days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So, what are you wearing?” asked the voice on the phone, in a way that was meant to be provocative.</p><p>Frank glances down at his red baseball tee and faded blue jeans, a lazy smirk drawing on his face. The weather still hadn’t decided what it wanted to be— throughout the day it’d start warm but would sometimes grow as cold as the first day of winter. Frank had his varsity jacket tied around his waist as the weather was currently more comfortable. His foot taps against the stool he was resting on. “Work appropriate attire.”</p><p>“Sounds hot.”</p><p>“You’re a total sleaze, you know that right?”</p><p>His caller pretends to be hurt, but the smile in his voice was as clear as day. “You wound me, Frankie.”</p><p>Even though Ghostface can’t see him, Frank gives a playful roll of his eyes. “Get over it.” He couldn’t believe he was admitting it, but he was starting to get used to the killer’s bizarre sense of humor. Frank had spent most of this past week with the killer and had quickly learned it came with the territory. He was more than halfway convinced that Ghostface’s day job was getting heckled at comedy clubs.</p><p>“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll hold a grudge against you for the rest of my life.”</p><p>Frank snorts at his ominous response. Part of him is almost endeared by it. Emphasis on <i>almost.</i> “Whatever will I do?”</p><p>“I can think of a few things…” Ghostface replies, coyly.</p><p>“That’s it, fag. I’m hanging up.”</p><p>A tutting noise on the other end. “One of these days, someone has got to teach you some manners.”</p><p>Frank tilts his head back with an easy-going laugh.</p><p>He wishes he could be staking out with the killer rather than stuck behind the counter, though he begrudgingly <i>supposes</i> he should be grateful to have any shifts at all. His hours lately have been severely reduced, no doubt punishment for the phone and Frank’s lovely little carvings. He had put most of his recent earnings into the ‘Get-Outta-Ormond Fund’ and shamefully, the jar had still looked totally empty. It blew, but it was working out in his favor since most of his time was occupied by Ghostface and their stalking.</p><p>A few times, the Legion had invited him out, but he had declined due to having already made plans with the serial killer. Even Julie, who was still hoping to meet at the diner, was pushed to the side in favor of another nightly visit to the Sullivans. He’d make it up to them after this was all done. </p><p>“How are the Sullies?” Frank asks as he smoothly switches the topic.</p><p>“Mr. Sullivan decided to go on a secret little outing after his wife went to bed. I thought it’d be fun to tail him. Surprise, surprise— he went to pick up his other girl. Would you believe date night was at McDonald’s?”</p><p>“Damn, that’s <i>actually</i> depressing.”</p><p>“You’re telling me. I hope he at least let her supersize it. Anyways, now they’re at some dingy little motel. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what they’re up to, so I rather just wait it out in the car.”</p><p>Frank briefly thinks about it. “Are you at Super Seven?”</p><p>“That’s the one.”</p><p>He couldn’t feel too proud of his guess— Ormond literally had only one motel. “That’s not too far from here,” Frank starts, but immediately shuts his trap. What was he thinking? What, he was going to invite the costumed man to come <i>hang</i> out? Was he an idiot? They weren’t actually friends— they just happened to have a common interest. If anything, they were more like work associates. And one should never, ever hang around work associates unless it was necessary.</p><p>Inferring what the dropout was going to say, Ghostface gives a tiny sigh. It sounds remorseful, but Frank can’t tell if the other man was fucking with him or not. “Wish I could, but I’m still on the clock. And technically, so are you.”</p><p>Regardless, heat rises to his face. “I wasn’t going to ask—” He’s cut off by the sound of a chiming bell, signaling a customer. Frank glances up to see a tired-looking man with stringy salt-and-pepper hair down to his shoulders and a full beard to match. He’d be just another customer if it wasn’t for the odd scar that ran across his right eye. “Shit, gotta run.”</p><p>“Toodles,” Ghostface croons, ending the call before Frank can. The dropout stealthily plugs the cellphone into a charger and hides it under a magazine. He crosses his arms as he lazily watches the man make his way to the refrigerators. If it wasn’t for the pricey lookin’ coffee-colored leather jacket the customer wore, Frank would have figured he was homeless.</p><p>The man hovers around the aisles aimlessly for a while, which irritates Frank greatly. Why didn’t people ever know what the fuck they wanted before they came in? Finally, the man scratches the back of his neck as he comes up to the counter, putting down a few energy drinks and a packet of sour gummy worms. Frank hops off the stool and steps towards the counter. </p><p>For some reason, the transaction feels completely awkward. The man’s shoulders sag with each scan of an item, his eyes downcast, and a large frown on his face. It was as if the man was off on a different planet. Frank clears his throat to bring him back to Earth and when the man looks at him, he asks: “Will that be all?”</p><p>“That’s it.” Then, after a belated pause, the man jokes with a grimace: “Unless you can bring back my dead sister.”</p><p>Frank purses his lips into a thin line and his eyebrows shoot up and <i>did he just hear what he thought he heard?</i> Obviously sensing the gas station worker’s discomfort, the man gives a half-hearted attempt at a laugh. “Sorry… It’s a coping mechanism.”</p><p>“It’s… fine.” Frank tersely answers. <i>What the hell?</i> Who just says something like that to a total stranger? He gives the man a second glance, pushing past the wrinkles on his forehead and the odd scar to see the familiar brown eyes of the waitress. His mouth dries. <i>Holy shit.</i> He was flailing to grab the words that were scattered around his mind, trying to form some type of coherent question: “The diner girl?”</p><p>The man forces a smile. “That’s her. Melinda. Everyone just called her Mindy though.”</p><p>And Frank is struck speechless again. It isn’t that he feels bad or anything, it’s just. Fascination. He’s just fascinated. From what he’s seen, Gregory Fink never had anyone who cared about him. No one ever reported him missing, no one ever made the connection between the lowly janitor vanishing and the dead man in the mountains.  And the Sullivans… they didn’t seem to have anyone else in their miserable little world. </p><p>But right now, standing right in front of him, there was someone who actually knew the deceased. Who wasn’t just a few pixels on the TV. Someone who was probably reeling from the loss, someone who was directly affected. And it’s kind of stupid because he knows that Ghostface acted alone then, but he feels like… it was his crime too. Like he was the one who brought this great tragedy into this man’s life. A familiar rush of power surges through him. It takes everything in him to keep from smiling.</p><p>“I’m sorry for your loss,” Frank says because that’s the inconspicuous thing to do.</p><p>“That’s alright,” the man keeps his voice steady, “We didn’t get along all that well if I’m being honest.” His eyes fall to the faded scars on Frank’s hands as he watches the teenager bag his items. “She always thought I should do more with my life. I know she just wanted what was best for me.”</p><p>Frank could always draw in people, getting them to tell him the story of their lives without much of a shove. Normally, this was a great nuisance but now he hopes this man isn’t in a hurry. Every single word he speaks is twinged with a feeling of sorrow that Frank relishes in. “I’m sure she did,” Frank reassures.</p><p>“Yeah. It’s funny. I was supposed to be the big brother, but I always felt it was the other way around.” He swallows as he meets Frank’s eyes. “She didn’t deserve to go out the way she did. I wouldn’t have wished that on my worst enemy.”</p><p>Frank shivers, thinking back to the wounds Ghostface inflicted to mimic his crime. The man mistakes it for fear and continues sympathetically: “At least after this funeral is over, I can go home. It must be scary to be living here, huh?”</p><p>“Nah.”</p><p>Perhaps taken aback by the cool and blunt response, the man says nothing for a long moment. Then he gives him the smallest of smiles, warm in nature. “That’s just how youth is, huh? You guys think you’re invincible. What’s your name, kid?”</p><p>Frank <i>despises</i> being referred to as a kid. He was nineteen, god damn it. If it was any other time, he’d hop over the counter and give the man another fuckin’ scar for the disrespect but he can’t risk losing this connection to Ghostface’s crime— or his job. Unable to let it slide completely, he pulls out a dart, lights it up, and puts it in between his teeth before answering. The man watches this with the steady eyes of a hawk. </p><p>“Frank.”</p><p>“Well, Frank. I grew up here, so I know as well as you do that it’s always felt so sleepy and dull. I hated being here more than anything else. But… Things feel different now, don’t they?” The man gently takes the plastic bag from him. “Have you felt it?”</p><p><i>I started it,</i> Frank wants to boast.</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve felt it.”</p><p>It was as Ghostface claimed. When he struck, the town seemed to feel wave after wave of aftershocks. It was all the news would chatter about— almost like they were proud to be hosting such a famous killer. The streets were emptier than usual, the stores closed just a little earlier, the Legion had thought it better not to hang around his work as much, and the worst part was that the police were getting frustrated. They had begun to patrol around more and more. How many times had he had to duck into an alleyway to avoid that stupid cop and his pet reporter?</p><p>The man sagely nods. “I think you should be afraid.” The way he says it, for a second, Frank is startled by the thought that this may be an unmasked Ghostface. But this man was much more portly compared to the lean figure of his partner. His expression is troubled. “I think this guy is going to keep hurting people and he’s not going to care who.”</p><p><i>You’re wrong,</i> Frank wants to argue. Ghostface was meticulous about who he attacked. He obviously had some sort of method to his decision. After all, Ghostface had told Frank he had a few other candidates for their crime. So he had to care who he was going after, maybe not in the sense this man meant but… That small irritation returns with a flicker and it begins to spread into a wildfire. Why the fuck was this man preaching to him anyway? Who was he to tell him how he should feel? </p><p>If only this asshole knew. If only he knew that Frank’s own hands were tainted with blood that would not wash off. His desire to have the man bemoan to him has evaporated and now he just wants him out of sight. The man was boring. Just like everyone else. So quick to be afraid of a fuckin’ ghost. He replies with a dismissive “Sure.” </p><p>The man takes the hint and sighs a bit, probably thinking about how stupid teenagers were now and days or something. Old fuck. “Just be safe out there.”</p><p>Frank takes a deep drag of his cigarette, narrowed eyes following as the man begins to leave. When he’s almost out the door, Frank calls out to him: “How long are you staying in town?”</p><p>The man looks back, quizzically. “Not long, just a day or two. Why?”</p><p>Finally, he frees a wicked smile from its prison. “I don’t recommend staying longer than that.”</p>
<hr class=""/><p>“I met diner girl’s brother the other night,” Frank brings it up casually, chewing the stick of gum Ghostface had given him. The serial killer seemed much too focused on the Sullivans and Frank figures he went completely ignored. He pops the gum, listens for Ghostface’s quiet sigh. Nothing. He wasn’t sure why the killer had given him the treat if he was going to be annoyed every single time he popped it, but aggravating Ghostface had quickly grown to become his second favorite hobby. He pops it again, bigger this time. Ghostface lets out a quiet sigh.</p><p>“Stop it.”</p><p>“Well don’t fucking ignore me then.”</p><p>Ghostface turns his mask to him. The white face of the ghost never changed its frightened expression, yet the serial killer always seemed to be able to emote just with the mask itself. This time, its slow movement meant: <i>“I’m five seconds from just killing you.”</i> Frank pulls down his own smiling mask and pops his gum.</p><p>“Sure I heard,” Ghostface replies, miraculously managing to sound placid, “I just couldn’t figure out why I should care.”</p><p>“You know what he told me?” When the serial killer doesn’t answer, the corners of Frank’s lips curl upwards smugly. Florida had warned him that messing with the killer was a dangerous game, but he found that’s just what made it so <i>exciting.</i> Would he get sick of Frank? How far could the dropout push him before he snapped? His little game also brought the killer down a peg, made him more human and not just a mysterious figure behind a mask. “Said that your kills didn’t matter since you just choose them at random.”</p><p>“They don’t matter,” Ghostface agrees after a long moment, much to Frank’s annoyance. “What matters is the attention they get.”</p><p>“So you <i>do</i> choose them at random,” Frank remarks innocently.</p><p><i>“Of course I don’t,”</i> Ghostface hisses in return, his tranquil demeanor nowhere to be seen. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I choose the most vulnerable.” Frank can feel eyes burning on him. “If I wanted to kill you, why, I would have targeted <i>you</i> next.”</p><p>Frank scoffs at that. He wasn’t unaware of Ghostface’s attempt to jab him back. “You think I’m vulnerable?” </p><p>A dark sneer comes from underneath the plastic mask. “Much more than you know.”</p><p><i>Please.</i> Frank had to hold back a laugh. Did Ghostface forget who was about to kill with him? Who even convinced the serial killer to work with him? Or who was able to get his friends to kill for him? Frank wasn’t vulnerable. He was the fuckin’ danger. </p><p>“If I’m not a threat,” Frank retaliates, “Then why don’t you take off the mask?” He points to the temple of his own mask. “It’s not hard.” He pulls his mask up and down a few times to prove his point. “Or are you that much of a pussy?”</p><p>His back roughly hits the bark of one of the trees, causing him to let out an <i>“oof!”</i> The serial killer presses down a gloved hand on his chest, his legs on either side of Frank’s. The dropout tries to thrash out of the hold, but a combat knife goes to his throat then. And Frank stops. He’s breathing heavily, but the serial killer above him doesn’t even seem to be fazed.</p><p>“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Ghostface whispers, coldly, pushing the knife past the fabric of the turtleneck. “I like you, Frankie. But I don’t like you that much.”</p><p>Despite the blatant danger, his heart is pulsing from adrenaline. That familiar jitter in his stomach is back, the one he long dismissed as nerves. But he doesn’t feel afraid. He isn’t quite sure he can put a name to it.</p><p>“Disrespect me again and next time, the knife will go all the way through. And I won’t shed a tear. Not a single one. Got it?”</p><p>“Got it,” Frank breathes out, staring past the black holes of the mask to the dark eyes behind it. He finds himself longing to see how enraged they must have been.</p><p>The serial killer moves the knife away and pats his head with mock affection. He rises to his feet with ease, returning the weapon to its sheath. Frank lingers there a little longer, collecting himself before he also gets back up.</p><p>“I’ll show you when I’m good and ready.” Ghostface is back to his calm facade, his voice soothing. Anyone else would have been fooled into thinking it was genuine. “Not a second sooner. It’s why I told you not to stalk our victims during the day. If you were to run into me…” he sighs, resting his cheek against his open palm. “Why… I’d be so disappointed...”</p><p>Frank realizes he swallowed his gum.</p>
<hr class=""/><p>He hadn’t expected to see her in a place like this. She was snobbier in person than she was from a distance. Her voice was nasally and high-pitched as if someone was doing an impression of her. “I just want to know where the dramas are,” she demanded to the clerk, making sure the word drama was accentuated. The clerk, for his part, kept his polite composure and pointed to the blatantly obvious hanging sign reading ‘drama’. Without as much as a thank you, she strolled over to her destination.</p><p>Frank had instinctively bent down to the bottom row of the action rentals as she made her way past him. Her heels clicked noisily against the checkered blue tile. His heart thumped against his chest and he stared down at his sneakers, careful not to let her catch his face. Not that it mattered though, because how would she recognize him? She’s never seen him before in her life. He grabs the closest film to him before he leaps to his feet. </p><p>His eyes flick to left, then right. There was a possibility that Ghostface was lurking around, unmasked and all. The rental store, compared to other shops, was actually pretty lively. Maybe people were stocking up in case they needed to stay indoors for the next few days. There were only a handful of other guys, but only one potentially matched the serial killer’s build.</p><p>He’s tall, well-built, brown hair trimmed down short and a five o’clock shadow, holding up a copy of <i>Pretty Woman.</i> He stares at him a little too long before the man stares back at him with a confused look. A slender woman tugs at his arm and the man goes back to his conversation. Frank tears his eyes away. Ah. Shit. Okay. Maybe Ghostie <i>wasn’t</i> here?</p><p>Frank gives a frantic shake of his head, remembering the events of last night. His hand flies to his neck without thinking, the ghost of the blade still against his throat. Ghostface had been incredibly serious about him not stalking the Sullivans during the daytime, but... fuck it. He obviously wasn’t here and he wasn’t his fucking boss. <i>Nobody</i> told Frank what he could and could not do. When a tiny voice in his head whispers that this may not be the best idea, he ignores it, because fuck you inner voice. </p><p>Luckily for him, Mrs. Sullivan was still deciding over which film she should pick. He makes his way, as casually as possible, to the row across from her. Her back is turned to him and he’s able to take her in— she’s wearing a purple dress with white polka dots and looks like an elementary school librarian. When she turns her head, he opens <i>Taxi Driver</i> and pretends to inspect the cassette tape. She settles on <i>Fried Green Tomatoes</i> and goes to the clerk. </p><p>Releasing an inaudible breath he didn’t even know he was holding, Frank lingers a little before closing the film and taking it with him. <i>Christ.</i> What was wrong with him? He didn’t get nervous, right? So he needed to pull it together. It’s just his future victim, just a few feet away from him. That’s all. He takes another breath to keep himself steady. He doesn’t give a shit about her. Not a single, flying shit. She wasn’t even a person, really. Just a sheep. Just like the rest of them. Now was not the time to get anxious.</p><p>She’s nearly next in line so he steps behind her and then she does her transaction: “Do hurry up, boy. I haven’t got all day.” Then he rents <i>Pulp Fiction</i> and <i>Taxi Driver,</i> due some time. He wasn’t really paying attention to what date the clerk said, his eyes trailing after Mrs. Sullivan as she leaves the store and strolls down the street, passing every single window of the store. </p><p>“Hey buddy,” the clerk asks as he follows Frank’s fixated gaze with sleepy eyes, “You into old ladies or something?”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up.” Frank snaps, flipping the guy off as he exits. He lingers a moment outside the door, very conscious of what the clerk told him before he continues to follow after her. Okay. So he had to be a bit more subtle. Luckily, his object of obsession didn’t notice him and that’s what mattered the most.</p><p>He hangs back a little when Mrs. Sullivan lets out a little noise of excitement as she stares at the window display of a clothing store. She enters it and Frank groans before quickly peeking into the window. He should really go in there, see what she buys or looks at, but there are only women inside.  Frank leans against the wall on the side of the store, allowing the darkness of the alley to be his disguise. </p><p>Frank occupies his time reading the back of the cassette tapes he rented before he hears the door open. Perking up and very tired of reading the same summaries over and over, he notices that Mrs. Sullivan hadn’t made any purchase at all. <i>‘Makes sense,’</i> Frank muses to himself, <i>‘technically she has no money, right?’</i></p><p>When she goes to have a bite at the coffee shop, he enters and gets himself a black coffee and watches her from across the room. She was reading some trashy romance novel, the kind the Legion would steal from Julie’s mom and read out loud up in the lodge. When he takes a good look at her hand, he notices that her nails were red and perfectly manicured. Her wedding ring, on the other hand, looked unpolished and uncared for. Could she scream “my marriage is on the rocks” any louder?</p><p>When she glances up, he pulls up the gossip magazine he’d borrowed from the rack and hides his face. He wished she’d give some type of warning when she pulled that shit because each time she lifts her head it’s like a mini heart-attack. He keeps waiting for her to glare at him and ask why he was watching her, but it never came. Maybe her head was just shoved <i>that</i> far up her ass. When she passes him to exit, he takes a quick gulp of his still-full coffee mug and gags. How anyone could drink this willingly was beyond him.</p><p>Why was it when Ghostface stalked, he always made it sound so suave and cool? His mind mockingly rasps: <i>“Oh, I’m right behind you. Also, I’ve learned your social insurance number.”</i> This shit was boring as hell, but he was still determined to prove that he could do whatever he wanted (and he definitely wanted to keep stalking her), so he continued after her.</p><p>They cross the street at the same time and she glances over her shoulder. He slips into an alleyway and waits a few seconds before peeking out. She was getting further away, was she walking faster?! Shit! No way she was beginning to suspect something? He shoves himself off the brick wall and is about to walk briskly to match her pace, but the second he steps out he hears a familiarly gruff— “Morrison.”</p><p>Frank throws his head back in irritation and whirls around to see his favorite fucking cop. “Yo.” He throws up a peace sign.</p><p>McNamara scowls at the blatant disrespect. “I see you’re still wandering around like a vagrant. Didn’t hear the news or what?”</p><p>“I was busy.” He rustles the bag from the rental store in front of him. “Can’t a man fuckin’ shop anymore?”</p><p>“Watch your tongue,” McNamara warns.</p><p>“Yeah, I heard the news. Heard that Ghostface took out The Frosted Man,” Frank can’t help but jeer. “How’s it feel to be so wrong?”</p><p>McNamara scoffs at that, his hand resting on the hilt of his pistol. “Yes, about that… Funny how this Ghostface character appeared conveniently after our interview. Isn’t that fascinating? He shows up out of the blue and claims credit for a crime committed months ago. Everyone might have shifted their attention, but not me. Do you think I’m that stupid? You don’t think I can’t tell two different killers apart?”</p><p>Frank’s smile fades a little, which only makes the cop smirk. “The evidence doesn’t lie, Morrison. The coroner only needs to compare the wounds of The Frosted Man versus Ms. Johansen. This little diversion won’t get you very far, I assure you. The Frosted Man will get his justice, I’ll do everything in my power to make it so.”</p><p><i>‘I could have fucking killed you the other day, asshole.’</i> Frank angrily thinks.</p><p>“Okay? Have fun.” Frank shrugs.</p><p>“Oh! Frank!” A new voice, high pitched and as obnoxious ever, grates his ears. Frank grimaces as the reporter comes up to the two of them. He was wearing a baggy brown coat that was zipped up near the very top. It looked absolutely ridiculous against the lighter clothing Frank and McNamara wore. In each one of his hands was a coffee cup, and he cheerily passed one to the officer. When had he been in the shop?</p><p>“T-thank you so much again for the other day! I can’t believe you were… well, right!” </p><p>Panic surges in the dropout. Oh no. McNamara’s eyes narrow with interest, but before he can say anything, Frank rushes to greet the reporter. “Hey. You look busy.”</p><p>“I’m very busy! Whew, you should imagine what my plate looks like! My m-metaphorical plate, that is. I don’t have a real plate in front of me...” Florida adjusts his glasses and Frank realizes belatedly that the other man was trying to make a joke. <i>Yeesh.</i> “Oh, darn!” Florida falters. “I’m so rude! Frank, d-do you want me to get you a coffee too?”</p><p>“No,” Frank replies, flatly. </p><p>“Have you worked with Morrison?” McNamara asks, sounding like he was trying not to scold a toddler rather than a full-grown man. Guess he had home experience.</p><p>“Ack! I didn’t tell you did I?” Florida smacks his forehead with his palm. “I’m s-sorry! Like I said, I’ve been busy. Very busy!! Ghostface has been k-killing the ratings!” Florida pauses, mortified. “Oh gosh, no pun intended. Anyways, uh, people just w-want Ghostface stories. The other day, f-for example, I wrote a very interesting lifestyle piece and my editor called and told me—”</p><p>“Sort of,” Frank butts in, having long since turned the reporter’s ramblings to white noise. “But it’s not really any of your business.” He turns to Florida, mentally trying to convey that all he needed to do was agree. “Since, ya know... Confidential sources and all.”</p><p>Florida brightens. “Oh, I see! So you want to stay anonymous, huh? I can d-definitely arrange that. If you ever want to work with me again, I’d be delighted!”</p><p><i>Why couldn’t he just say he agreed?!</i> Frank wanted to claw his face in frustration.</p><p>McNamara cocks an eyebrow, turning to the reporter. “This isn’t America, you don’t actually have to keep what you two discussed confidential if a police member asks.”</p><p>Florida’s eyes go wide under his glasses. “Ah, is that so?” He shakes his head with a huff. Relief courses through his veins. “S-sorry, McNamara. But as a reporter it’s important I have t-trust! What if Frank gets more information on G-Ghostface? I need to make sure he’s okay with telling me t-these things!”</p><p>It becomes as silent as a funeral. Even the birds overhead have stopped chirping.</p><p>A cold sensation washes over Frank and is it just him or was that the slightest smirk on the reporter’s lips? As he continues to stare, it returns to that dopey large smile. Or maybe his expression was never different at all.</p><p>McNamara turns to the dropout, slowly. “What kind of information?” He questions, each word having more force than the other.</p><p>“Information?” Florida repeats timidly, pushing up his glasses once more. “Um, information on Ghostface?” This time, the smile has completely vanished from his features.</p><p>“Huh.” McNamara’s smirk grows even wider. “Would you look at that? Now, enlighten me, Morrison, how did you manage to get information on a killer that no one else knew was in town?”</p><p>Frank finally remembers how to speak. “He called me. But I thought it was a prank call. I knew uh, this guy over here was from America. So I asked him about it…”</p><p>He braces himself. Waits for Florida to laugh and say that he was wrong, that’s not what happened! He waits for the cuffs to slap on his wrists.</p><p>Instead, Florida nods. “Yep!” Brightly, as if unaware of the danger his stupidity just brought upon Frank, he continues: “He didn’t r-really feel safe going to the cops. Told me you all would just think he was f-faking it. So, he went to the n-next best thing!” He puffs out his chest, but it doesn’t have much of an effect due to the oversized coat.</p><p>Frank has never, ever felt more grateful in his entire fucking existence. <i>Holy shit.</i> Florida was lying for him. ...But why? Did he finally catch on that Frank would have been in big fucking trouble? He spies the glint of frustration in McNamara’s eyes. He couldn’t call bullshit on him if the reporter was saying the same story.</p><p>“Then why didn’t you say anything to me?!” McNamara whips his head and barks at Florida who cringes with a whimper.</p><p>“Ah! I s-should have, I know…” He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “But t-truthfully… I didn’t believe it either… So I just put it in my rumors pile and didn’t think about it!” Florida looks miserable. “M-maybe if I had listened to you… Ms. Johansen w-would still be alive… I’m sorry, Frank.”</p><p>Frank’s never had an adult apologize to him before. He isn’t quite sure what to say back, so he says nothing. McNamara, meanwhile, was practically seething. Even if he thought this whole story was bullshit, he had no reason to doubt his partner. The officer takes a deep breath in order to quell his temper. </p><p>“Olsen…” The officer says through gritted teeth, “For the love of all things holy, <i>promise me</i> you won’t work with this dipshit anymore.”</p><p>Florida frowns. “That’s a t-terribly rude thing to call a teenager, G-George.”</p><p>
  <i>“Olsen.”</i>
</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Florida returns to Frank, apologetic once more. “I’m sorry, Frank. B-but I’d rather not cause any more trouble b-between you two… You understand, right?”</p><p>Honestly, Frank could kiss this fucking idiot. Somehow, he just saved the skin off his back. If it meant never seeing Florida again, well, it was a worthy sacrifice. “Yeah, I get it.”</p><p>Florida smiles sadly and nods at McNamara. “Well. We s-should get going. Didn’t we have an interview to get to…?”</p><p>“Right, right.” McNamara straightens himself up, still glaring at Frank. The two begin to depart, but the cop pauses. Begrudgingly, he turns to Frank and says: “If you ever feel like your life is in danger again… Just call the police.”</p><p><i>‘Like hell I will,’</i> Frank thinks.</p><p>He stays there, watches until the two men are specks on the horizon. Mrs. Sullivan, too, is long gone. He holds a hand to his chest, his heartbeat is so fast he can barely feel its pulse.</p><p>He guesses this is what it’s like to be afraid.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">Happy Spooky Month !! We're in for a wild ride this month. :")</span>
</p><p>  <span class="noted">You might have noticed, but we now have a set chapter count! After I posted chapter eight, I ended up typing up chapters nine and ten within two days. At the moment, I'm nearly done with chapter eleven! Even though I knew which plot points I wanted to hit, being ahead has allowed me to figure out when / how I want to get there. I did warn you guys that this fic would be on the longer side, but I do hope you guys stick around!</span></p><p>  <span class="noted">On another note: turns out I'm awful at tagging. If you guys need anything tagged in any chapter, please let your girl know.</span></p><p>  <span class="noted">Thank you always to megidola for beta-reading this ♡</span></p><p>
  <span class="noted">(ps: did you enjoy jeff's cameo?)</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. A Lifetime of Regret</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There were many days where, truthfully, Tina wasn’t even sure what she was still doing here. She just finished preparing dinner for the two of them, nothing too special, just some spaghetti and chicken, but it had taken up the majority of her day. Cooking, it seemed, had become one of the only things that still brought her some semblance of joy. It took her mind off other matters. A long time ago, her mother had told her a good meal was the way to a man’s heart. She wasn’t sure where she went wrong. At right about six in the night, she plates their meals and sits at her place at the table and forces a little smile on her face. </p><p>She would ask him about his day, she decides. Today would be the day where she tries to connect with him again. She’d ask him if he made any headway in the novel he was writing, the one that caused him to stay locked up in the office most hours. She sits there unmoving for a half-hour, the smile still on her face. The food has gone cold. He has not walked through the door. The phone rings and she answers.</p><p><i>“I have a late conference today,”</i> he lies over the line as if they both don’t know what he was going off to do. <i>“It’s best you don’t wait up for me tonight.”</i> There’s no point in begging him to come home, to kiss her like he does his newest prize. So she answers as she usually does, a soft-spoken:</p><p>“That’s fine.” Tentatively, she adds, “I love you.”</p><p>The quiet that follows hurt more than anything else. <i>“I’ll see you tomorrow”</i> is his steady response. The dial tone in her ear sounds like a scratched-up record. She rises after what felt like hours, smoothes out her clothes in an attempt to hide her embarrassment, and begins to put the food away. She’d have plenty of leftovers, it seemed. She lets out a shaky little laugh at that. She washes the dishes, pours herself a glass of red wine, and takes a long sip.</p><p>She’d seen the little hussy around. The girl was everything she never was: blond hair and pretty blue eyes, long legs, and clean skin. Deep down, she knew it was unfair to blame the young thing— what did she know of the world? She probably saw the world with such vast potential, able to do anything her little heart desired, tired of the boys, and wanting to prove herself. Tina felt awful for her. She was a bright star in the sky, but she knew that her husband would use her until she was nothing more than a dying rock.</p><p>She had experienced it first-hand, after all. Once upon a time, Samuel had been a young man with a dream of being the next Ernest Hemingway. He denounced “the man” and preached love and would stand outside her window singing the Beatles. Her parents hated him. They wanted her to marry this boring man from a wealthy family, who would keep her comfortable for the rest of her life. Samuel had no money. But he had a dream to escape this dull little town. </p><p>“My dreams won’t be complete without you,” he had told her, bending down on a knee like in all the fairytales and giving her a flower because he couldn’t afford a ring. She cried that day and told him “yes” and she was sure if she looked hard enough she could find the book she pressed the daisy into.</p><p>She smiles as she takes another sip of the wine. She’s drifted to the living room now, too busy in her memories to hear the stairs creaking. She tilts her head back and closes her eyes. Samuel was rejected from publisher after publisher, eventually taking out some loans to go to college and becoming a teacher. They never made enough money to leave. Her parents didn’t help out. For seven long years, they lived in a motel and ate canned food. It wasn’t much, but they had each other. Then her parents died and they left her the house and their money and they could live how they always wanted.</p><p>He took her on trips, he bought her clothes, he kept her happy. She never needed any of that to be happy, really, she just enjoyed him and his company. He quit his job for a while, took time off to write his great world-changing novel. They wanted to start their family, but her body never cooperated. It was a miracle when they had their baby boy, but the world in all its cruelty took him away.</p><p>They were never the same after that, Samuel and her. Admittedly, their relationship had already begun to fray long before that, when she learned he had a wandering eye and “too much love to contain to one person.” In a way, she had selfishly hoped their bundle of joy would save them, but nothing ever seemed to work out for her that way. She thought about having her own affairs, just to get back at him, just to have him feel jealous, but she could never bring herself to do it.</p><p>He went back to teaching and she tended to the home. It wasn’t as if she had other skills. She was raised in a family that emphasized girls being mothers and nothing more. She wishes, desperately, that she had gotten training as a secretary or a line operator or anything. Tina didn’t hate anything more than she hated this house.</p><p>Tina takes another sip and realizes she never turned on the television. She turns it on. <i>‘The world is getting sadder and sadder every day,’</i> she thinks to herself as the news plays. It was replaying that same story about the masked murderer. What was his name? She can’t remember through the haze, but she does remember this isn’t her first glass tonight. She finds her remote and turns the channel to a rerun of I Love Lucy.</p><p>She smiles.</p><p>She used to watch this show when she was a little girl. Maybe she still knew the lines by heart. When she watches Lucy and Ricky on screen, she can’t help but fantasize about herself and Samuel. </p><p>Maybe, in another life… </p><p>Her thoughts are interrupted by the phone ringing and she can’t help but feel a glimmer of hope. Maybe he had changed his mind? Maybe he was coming home after all? She leaps off the couch, stumbling a little, and giggles at her silliness. She hums and makes her way to the closest phone. She pauses at the mirror. In place of the middle-aged woman with fat sagging cheeks and greying hair was herself as a young adult. She used to be so pretty. </p><p>Tina gives herself a shy little wave and she waves back. She finishes her glass and finally answers the white phone hanging in the hallway. “Hello?” She’s not really aware of the slurring in her voice.</p><p>“Is this Tina?” A soft voice croons into the phone. </p><p>Tina blinks, forcing herself to sober a little. The voice on the phone isn’t one she thinks she recognizes, but there’s something so gentle about the way the man speaks. “Speaking, who is this?”</p><p>“You shouldn’t really be drinking so much, I hear it makes you less aware.”</p><p>The woman frowns. Sluggishly, she tries to think about why his words don’t make sense to her.  “Ah, sorry? Who is this?”</p><p>“What’s got you down?” The voice asks, sounding sympathetic. “You wanna talk about it?”</p><p>“Well,” she laughs, feeling a bit light-headed. Being careful not to spill any of her drink, she rubs her forehead with the back of her hand. “I usually don’t tell strangers about my problems.”</p><p>“Aww, don’t be like that. I’m all ears.”</p><p>Tina considers it for a minute. The man seems so kind, so trustworthy. But no. She knows better. “No, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t.” It’s impolite, after all, to talk about affairs of the home to others. “Have a good night.”</p><p>She hangs up the phone and fumbles her way into the kitchen. She’s pouring herself another glass when the phone next to the sink rings again. She hesitates for a moment before she answers it. “Hello?”</p><p>“Why’d you hang up?” The man sounds curious.</p><p>“I just didn’t want to take up more of your time,” she explains. Suddenly, she feels a bit embarrassed that she did so.</p><p>“It’s alright, I have all night. Your husband isn’t coming back home until much later, after all.”</p><p>Tina looks down at the red liquid sloshing in her glass. Why didn’t that sound right, either? “How’d you know that?”</p><p>“I know lots of things,” the man hums. “I know how he doesn’t care for you at all.”</p><p>Tina sighs before she weakly laughs, pushing aside her growing confusion. “That obvious, huh?”</p><p>“Oh, it’s very obvious,” the man laughs as well, though his was much warmer.</p><p>Feeling a bit looser, feeling a bit more daring, she says: “You know, I made his favorite tonight.”</p><p>“The spaghetti and chicken?”</p><p>“Uh-huh.” She leans against the counter. “I made too much, I’m afraid.” With a giggle, she asks: “Should I fix you a plate?”</p><p>“Sure,” the man purrs, clearly amused by her joke. “Go ahead. Should I come to the table, too?”</p><p>Tina smiles. This odd little call had already begun to cheer her up. “Why not? I’ll even pour you a glass.”</p><p>“I’ll be right there,” the man tells her. Tina laughs again and so does he and then the line dies. And she pauses in surprise. The dial tone plays in her ear like a scratched-up record.</p><p><i>‘What a silly little call,’</i> she thinks, as she hums and hangs up the phone. She stops pouring her glass mid-way and is it the wine or does she hear footsteps? She strains to hear. Nothing. It must have been her imagination. She shakes her head at her silliness and settles back down on the couch. She watches Ricky scold his wife, but the wheels in her mind are turning. The more she thought about it, something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right at all.</p><p>
  <i>How did he know her name?</i>
</p><p>The warmth of the liquor leaves her then. </p><p>
  <i>How did he know what she made for dinner?</i>
</p><p>Didn’t they say something on the news…? About getting weird phone calls…? She gasps in the empty room, her wine glass shattering to the ground as it falls from her hand. She scrambles to her feet, moving too quickly and feeling her mind wail in pain as she did so. She forces herself to ignore it. She needs to… go to the phone.</p><p>The hallway seems darker than usual. Hadn’t... Hadn’t she left on the light? She holds her head and squints and tries to make out the white phone. It’s missing from its base. A chill runs up her spine then. She goes into the kitchen and turns on the light she didn’t know she turned off and lets out a blood-curdling scream at the sight.</p><p>In front of her was a tall figure, dressed in dark shadows. In its ghoulishly white face were hollow black holes in place of eyes and its mouth hung open, just as wide and empty. The sight of it springs tears into her eyes and she trembles and backs away. “P-please don’t… Please don’t hurt me…”</p><p>The figure says nothing as it steps closer to her. Her eyes fall to its hand, setting down a white phone. She tries to press her back against the wall, but instead her back presses against something warm. She whips her head, screaming again as another figure stares down at her. This time, its face was stretched open in an inhuman grin. She becomes even more aware of the knife it brandishes, raised and ready.</p><p>“Stay back!” She openly sobs and she’s about to race off when the one behind her snags her around the neck and cuts off her air and she lets out a choked noise.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” The figure in the kitchen asks, looking around the room. “Where’s my plate?” </p><p>That voice— ! It was— ! </p><p>The figure holding her laughs mockingly. “Holy shit, she’s like a chihuahua.”</p><p>“Don’t be so rude…” The taller figure tsks. She tries to beg, tries to yell, but when her mouth creaks open it can only make another strangled cry. “She was such a nice host, after all.”</p><p>The figure comes closer to her and she struggles, slamming her balled up fists against her captor. The alcohol has made her weaker, made her movements much slower. The grinning figure laughs cruelly and only tightens the hold against her neck. She… She can’t breathe… She can’t…</p><p>Her vision is growing dark. The darkness of the taller figure is all she sees, as it leans down to give her a good look. She realizes, in horror, that it is not a monster. But a man. The man on the phone.</p><p>The arm around her neck loosens and she’s able to gasp and cough and wheeze as her lungs struggle to fill back up, desperately trying to get any air she can. “No…” She tries, cringing at how rough her voice sounds. “Please…”</p><p>She can’t die here. She can’t. She… she was supposed to… patch things up with Samuel. She… if she dies here… What was the point of staying here for so long… What was the point of being so miserable…?</p><p>She’s vaguely aware of the grinning man moving his arm down to her shoulder, grasping it tightly. He’s about to cut her with the knife, she realizes with a quiet shock. She can make a run… She jabs her other elbow with as much force as she can muster into his stomach and he lets out a quiet obscenity and releases her. She takes off with a stumble, the tears clouding her still spotty vision.</p><p>She doesn’t make it very far before the taller man blocks her escape at the front door. “Where are you going?” He asks with a mockingly sad tone. “We haven’t even gotten to the main course yet.”</p><p>“I won’t say anything!” She begs, “Please!”</p><p>“You’re right!” The man tells her, cheerfully, <i>“You won’t say a damn thing!”</i></p><p>And she’s very aware of the knife that drives deep, deep into her back. As she tries to holler out from the excruciating pain, a gloved hand from behind her covers her mouth. She’s still staring at those hollow black eyes as he slowly takes out his own knife.</p><p>“What did you think of the meal, partner?” He asks, speaking behind her like she wasn’t even there. </p><p>“Think I’ve got room for dessert,” the other man says like it’s all just a big joke, yanking out the knife and striking her again on the side of her stomach. She howls into his hand and tilts her head up and she tries to flail but this time he makes sure to keep a stronger hold on her. She can feel the blood oozing down her back. It’s warm like she’s been set on fire.</p><p>This causes the taller man to laugh and she tries to open her mouth once more, but a quick, expert slice across her throat ceases her movement. She never moves again.</p>
<hr class=""/><p>
  <i>“I love you.”</i>
</p><p>Samuel falls quiet at that. She said it slowly. Nervously. Like she was afraid of what he would do. Had he given her a reason to be afraid? The thought makes him sick, even as he wants to laugh at the irony. He sits at his desk, stares out at the empty row of student desks in front of him. It was the first time in years that he heard her say that.  His hand clasps over his mouth in thought. He forgot how good it felt to hear those three little words coming from her lips. Did he deserve them? His mind drifts to his student, the one waiting for him. And he’s never felt more like a disgusting pile of slime. </p><p>He knows it is too late to return her words. He’s waited too long. That wouldn’t be the first time though, would it? He lets his hand fall slowly and he steadily replies: “I’ll see you tomorrow” and the instant those words leave his mouth he regrets them, wishes he could revert time and <i>god</i> why couldn’t he just tell her what she wanted to hear? What he wanted to say?</p><p>He hangs up his cell phone and buries his face into his hands. There were many days where, truthfully, Samuel didn’t know what he was still doing here. Did she really love him or was she just saying that? It used to be so easy to tell. They used to be able to talk about anything and everything. They were the kind of couple that would make everyone else go green with envy. Not for the first time, he thinks: <i>“What happened to us?”</i></p><p>He loves her dearly. She was beautiful, intelligent, and forgiving. So, so forgiving. He knows he’s not a good man. He’s done— <i>he’s doing</i>— terrible things. But it started as retaliation. She used to burn so brightly, like a white-hot star, so brightly he had been scorched. Her temper was constant, he still had the faded scars to prove it. She believed she was better than the entire world, himself included. He was never enough for her.</p><p>There’d been a long period in their lives where they lived in a motel after she eloped with him. She’d languish and look out the window and tell him she regretted her choices. She regretted ever meeting him. How she wished she had gone off with the rich man her parents planned for her. She would tell him that he didn’t deserve her. Each word of hers would sting like the end of a whip. She’d cry, not real tears, but loud enough for those around to give him dirty looks when things didn’t go her way. He strived to prove himself to her, but nothing was ever enough. </p><p>He’d longed to be a writer. He wrote novel after novel, all rejected by publishers who laughed at his outlandish ideas. Whenever he came home from his latest failure, she would shake her head and talk about the wealthy suitor and Samuel would have to remember that he was a man and could not be caught crying. He’d wait until she fell asleep to sit outside with a cigarette and let it out. </p><p>Eventually, he gave up on his dream. It was pointless to keep trying for it. He pushed himself through college, worked three different part-time jobs, and when he came home he never had enough energy to do anything but sleep. He begged her to find work because back then, he felt so overwhelmed and stressed out he was waiting for himself to self-combust. But she’d laugh and say that it was a man’s job and he’d struggle to support the two of them. </p><p>Then her parents died and they left her the house and their money and they could live how they always wanted.</p><p>He took her on trips, he bought her clothes, he kept her happy. It was the only way to keep her from complaining. He would have been content to stay with her and enjoy her company, but she always wanted <i>more more more.</i> He quit his job for a while, tired and burnt out. He tried to even pick up writing again, but the love of the art had long since diminished. They wanted to start their family, but her body never cooperated. It was a miracle when they had their baby boy, but the world in all its cruelty took him away.</p><p>They were never the same after that, Tina and him. She pulled away from him. They were both grieving. There were many days where all he wanted to do was fling himself off the peak of Mount Ormond, but he had to stay strong for both of them. He would try to talk to her, try to share in their pain, but she didn’t want that. She wanted to be alone. And god, he longed for affection. He never thought himself the kind of person, but he began to find the love he craved in other places. </p><p>He knew he should have just left if he was unhappy, but <i>god</i> how could he leave her after all they’ve been through? He stares at the silver cellphone. Even now, he was completely unhappy. It’s been so long, he doesn’t remember what it was like to feel any other way. It didn’t matter the company he kept.  Sometimes, he’d just lock himself in the office and drink whiskey and forget all about his problems for a while. That’s what he always did, huh? Run from his problems? Is that really how he should deal with this?</p><p>She said she loved him.</p><p>He knows it’s… silly to think they could begin to patch things, but the faintest glimmer of hope flutters through his chest. He calls his student, apologizes to her, but they needed to be apart for now. He raises off his chair. Everything was closed now, closed early due to the news about that terrible murderer lurking around. He leaves the campus, bends down to pick a few daisies, and smiles softly to himself. </p><p>He wasn’t sure if he remembered how to do it, but after a bit of trial and error is able to weave them into a make-shift bracelet. It wasn’t like the expensive jewelry she coveted, but perhaps it could be the start of new beginnings between them. Just maybe... </p><p>He decides to surprise her, show up earlier than usual. He’s driving home when his phone rings from the front passenger seat. It must be his student. But the number was from a private caller. He glances over it and debates picking it up, explaining himself, but the light turns green and he continues to drive. The phone stops.</p><p>He’s only a block or two away when the phone rings again. The private caller. He briefly considers not answering it again, but he needs to be a man. He needs to reject his student properly. Tell her that it was over. He answers: “Listen, I’m sorry—”</p><p>“Hi Sammy,” the voice rasps. He frowns deeply— instead of the soft, feminine voice he was expecting, it was a man’s.</p><p>“Ah, sorry, who is this? How did you get this number?”</p><p>“Surprised, huh?” The voice darkly chuckles. “Were you expecting to hear your student’s?”</p><p>He nearly crashes his car as he pulls into his driveway. He barely manages to press the button on his key to open the garage door. “Excuse me? Who is this?”</p><p>“What’s your favorite thing to do during your study sessions?” The voice asks, cheerily.</p><p>“That’s…” Samuel stammers out as he parks his car. He doesn’t get out of it. His heart is hammering in his chest. “What do you want?”</p><p>“Huh?” The voice sounds surprised, but it didn’t sound authentic. He returns to his chipper demeanor: “What could I possibly want from you? You have nothing to offer me. No money, no wife…”</p><p>Samuel blanches at that. “W-what did you say?”</p><p>“No money, no life?”</p><p>“That’s… that’s not what you said.”</p><p>“Oops. Well. Either way, it’s true.” The voice laughs cruelly. </p><p>Afraid, Samuel slams his phone shut without another word. He throws it and it falls under the front passenger seat. Didn’t the news say something about…? Getting a phone call…? He swallows thickly. Ah, but this was the first time he’s called. Normally, they get calls days in advance. So he had time. He could go to the police. He flexes his hands against the steering wheel. He needs to tell Tina about this first. </p><p>The phone rings again, but he ignores it. He straightens up. He had to be calm, for both of them. Just like he always was. He enters the house through the side door of the garage and immediately pales. The lights were all off. “Tina?” He calls out. There is no reply. His feet have glued themselves to the ground. He could… go to the police. Before he can move, he’s roughly pushed inside the house, and the door slams behind him.</p><p>“Hey!” He yells, whirling around. His hands fly to the handle and he rattles it with desperation but the door doesn’t budge. He stares through the door’s small window and sees a grinning mask staring back at him. The owner of the mask shakes their head playfully, wagging their finger. </p><p>“Fuckin’ Christ!” Samuel yelps and jumps back as a knife slams itself through the door. The masked character was trying to get in? With clammy hands, he locks the door, and darts off into the first-floor hallway. He wasn’t sure how long a locked door would stop the intruder. He feels for his phone and realizes in a cold sweat that he fucking. Forgot to grab it. </p><p>He grabs the hallway phone from the base, pushing it against his ear. But there is no dial-tone. Just dead silence. No. No. He puts the phone back where it was. Where was Tina? Where was his wife? He was afraid to call out for her again. He fears the worst. <i>‘Maybe she went out,’</i> he thinks hopelessly.</p><p>There’s a sound of a door closing somewhere and he holds back his scream. He needs to be calm. Slowly, surely, he makes his way to the kitchen. His eyes scan the darkness, but there seemed to be no sign of life here. As quietly as he can, he opens the drawer and pulls out a kitchen knife. </p><p>He holds onto it with dear life and feels his way to the living room. The sight sends a shockwave through him. The grisly scene was illuminated by the television, playing I Love Lucy. Her favorite. There was blood, blood everywhere. “Oh no,” he brokenly whispers, shaking. “Oh no, baby, no...” </p><p>There was his wife, propped up like she was still watching the show. Lifeless eyes and her lips formed into a smile. Her neck was sliced open and the more he looked the more wounds he saw. He wants to cry, he hovers over her body, holds her cold hand. He should have been here. He could have protected her. </p><p>“Oh? Now you care?” An amused voice causes his blood to freeze.</p><p>Samuel chokes back a scream as he sees a tall man standing by the hallway. His face was covered by a white mask that looked like Edvard Munch’s painting and he wore a black costume. When the television flashed a bright image, he could make out darker patches. Was that her blood on him? How… how didn’t he see the man…? Where did he come from..?</p><p>It finally registers in his mind— the grinning masked character wasn’t trying to enter the house. <i>They were trying to drive Samuel further into it.</i></p><p>“Stay back!” Samuel puts on his bravest bravado, holding the knife out against his chest. With a strangled fury, he screams: </p><p>“I’ll fucking kill you!”</p><p>The costumed man laughs at that and pulls out his own knife. It seemed much sharper than his own, Samuel notices with his mouth dry. He rushes towards Samuel. Samuel cringes and jumps over the coffee table as the other man nearly comes close. As the intruder lashes out at him, Samuel gives a cry of pain as his arm is grazed. </p><p>Thinking quickly, Samuel kicks the table with enough force to flip it. The coffee table crashes into the costumed man, causing him to stumble back into the corpse. Samuel can’t think about it too long. He needs to fucking leave!</p><p>He flies towards the front door, but the costumed man is able to recover quickly from his attack and leans over the couch, snatching Samuel’s jacket. He drags him closer and when Samuel turns to slash him with his own knife, the man is ready for him. He knocks the kitchen knife out of the teacher’s hand with the butt of his own and slashes forward. </p><p>Samuel pulls back, but it isn’t fast enough. A pained cry escapes him as the knife finds its target. His shirt is sliced open, his chest beginning to ooze out blood. No! No! It couldn’t end like this! Sheer adrenaline rushing through his veins, keeping him from blacking out right there and then, he slugs the man on the side of his head. </p><p>The force of the attack causes the mask to fall off his face and Samuel’s eyes widen. The man is smiling broadly, wildly from ear to ear. <i>He was enjoying this.</i> The man lets him go to pick up the mask and Samuel quickly kicks it out of the way as he fumbles for the stairs. </p><p>He couldn’t leave through the front door, he couldn’t get to his car in time and his neighbor’s houses were too far apart to get to on foot. His mind is racing with his options but <i>god he can’t think of any!<i> All he can think is pain, oh god, his chest fucking <i>hurts.</i> He staggers upstairs, still pressing his hand against the wound tightly. </i></i></p><p>The man, now remasked, comes after him with a renewed fury and Samuel gasps. The two men rush up the stairs and when he’s at a high enough point, Samuel reaches over the banister and snatches a vase that’s resting on top of the television.</p><p>He throws it down towards the man and the costumed figure covers his face with his arms as the glass breaks around him. Not looking back to see how much damage he’s done, he flees to his bedroom. The bat—! Yes, of course! Hope swells in his chest. One strong strike and he’d be able to knock out the intruder. He can’t die here. If he dies here, what was the point of living all this fucking time?</p><p>Samuel runs down the hall. The light was on, flickering dimly. God, why didn’t he ever get that shit fixed?! He rushes into his bedroom, slams the door behind him and locks it. He presses his back flat against it, breathing labored. The bat, the bat..! He dives under his bed and grasps around in the dark for the metallic bat but doesn’t feel it. Where…? What…?</p><p>He screams as he feels a knife dive down into his ankle. He thrashes his feet and the knife is pulled out. A hand grasps his injured leg and he’s dragged out from underneath. He rolls over as he’s let go to see the grinning masked character. Oh. Whatever hope he had diminishes the instance his eyes catch the metallic glint of the bat over the man’s shoulder. “No!” He cries out, cowering before him. “No, please! I can give you anything!”</p><p>“Really? Like what?” The intruder asks tauntingly and his eyes nearly bulge out of his head.</p><p>“Morrison?” He croaks out at the familiar voice of his former student. “Frank Morrison?”</p><p>Wrong answer. And the last words he ever utters. The bat is swung down into his face. </p><p>
  <i>CRACK!</i>
</p>
<hr class=""/><p>Blood splatters coat Frank and he basks in the warmth of it. Yes. <i>Yes.</i> This is what he had been missing all along. He’s breathing heavily now. The bat swings at his side, blood dripping off it. It’s a beautiful shade of red. He stares down coldly at the dead man. His face was unrecognizable. Whoever the man was, he’s nobody now. </p><p>Frank viciously laughs at that, moves his mask up and to the side, then takes a moment to admire the corpse. The man had died begging and groveling like a little bitch. He had been terrified of Frank. He even knew him. It made it all the better! A great flood of power causes him to feel absolute fuckin’ elation. It’s like he’s on another plane of existence, high off this crime. It’d been everything he’s been waiting for and more. Killing the stupid janitor didn’t even compare.</p><p>He drops the bat unceremoniously and takes a moment to admire his gloved hands, darker than they'd been before. With a wicked giddiness, he wonders if the blood has seeped through onto his bare skin. He then picks up his knife he threw to the ground, wiping the blood away on his wrist before he returns it to its sheath. Then he unlocks the door and exits, practically strutting with each step. At the base of the stairs, Ghostface is waiting for him.</p><p>“Well?” His partner whispers when Frank is back by his side. It’s so soft, he barely catches it. “How does it feel?”</p><p>“Good,” Frank breathes out, staring into the eyes behind the mask. “Real fucking good.”</p><p>“Good,” Ghostface praises and Frank feels a rush of warmth in his chest.</p><p>It’s then that he’s pushed against the wall. Without warning, Ghostface has lifted up his own mask ever so slightly and rough lips are crushed against Frank’s. Caught by complete surprise, he parts his lips and Ghostface takes this as his chance to push his tongue in. The man is holding him by the lapels of his leather jacket, pulling him closer to ensure he consumes all he can of Frank. For a moment, Frank finds himself kissing back. The euphoria of the kills along with the taste of the other man is almost too much to bear.</p><p>Then it sinks in.</p><p>He shoves his hands flat against the man’s chest and Ghostface allows for their lips to part. Before Frank can take a good look, he pulls down his hard plastic mask. Frank wipes his mouth with his sleeve in exaggerated disgust. “What the fuck?” Frank spits, a flurry of emotions sweeping through him. <i>He just fucking kissed another guy.</i></p><p>“What’s wrong?” Ghostface teases, not seeming at all bothered by what they just did. “I thought seeing people die got you all hot and bothered. Or is only when it's printed?”</p><p>Frank’s face turns a dark crimson. The serial killer fucking knew. He knew about the newspaper. So that’s what this was, huh? Just some big fucking joke on him. Unbelievable. In sheer humiliation and anger, he shoves past the killer. <i>This was a fucking mistake.</i> This whole thing had been a mistake. “Fuck you,” he mutters as he pulls down his mask over his face. </p><p>“Aw, don’t be like that, Frankie!” Ghostface calls to him, sounding more entertained than anything else as he watches the dropout storm off to the front door. “Where are you going?”</p><p>Frank doesn’t look at him as he flashes him his middle finger and leaves the murders and the ghost behind him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">Because this fic is in Frank's POV, the murders are romanticized and the victims are quickly dismissed. I thought it would be interesting to write the crime the way the Sullivans experienced it, to give them humanity and show they weren't the unimportant sheep Frank thinks they were. I also wanted to show that, to the people of Ormond, this must be a terrifying ordeal to be living through. The Sullivans were not good people, but neither are Ghostface and Partner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">On the other hand, we have the kiss between our two favorite killers. Everything I’ve written between them has led up to this very scene, which came to my head way back in chapter one (which is insane to me, since I didn't think I'd make it this far.) Frank is very conflicted about his feelings, which we'll see in the next chapter. :')</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">As always, thank you to my fabulous beta reader Megidola ♡</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Strawberry Milkshake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For two agonizingly long weeks, Frank dreamed of nothing but murder. He yearned for the moment he could hear dying screams and feel the warmth of someone else’s blood on his body. For two agonizingly long weeks, he’d play their plan in his mind over and over again as he pumped gas or wandered the streets on his days off. He should be basking in his rotten crime now that it’s happened, but all that was replaying was the feel of the other killer’s lips on his own. They way they pulled apart, with Frank breathless and hungry for more.</p><p>No. Fuck that. Scratch that last part. He definitely <i>(definitely)</i> hadn’t felt like that. He wasn’t some fuckin’ homo. Even his stomach curls like sour milk at the thought, from disgust. Definitely <i>(definitely)</i> disgust.</p><p>The notion of ever doing those kinds of acts with a man had never crossed his mind— he wasn’t like those fags on MTV. But even with his venomous thoughts attacking him with slurs and other insults, that wasn’t exactly the truth, was it? He dismissed the killer’s blatant flirtations as jokes, but he wasn’t a fucking moron. He always knew they weren’t. And he had flirted right back, hadn’t he? He did that. Purposely. Why? The attention? Was it just the attention? </p><p>He thinks of the costumed man, of his built figure and broad shoulders. Of how they seemed to talk so easily and yet sit in silence with just as much effortlessness. Of how he spoke in a rough voice with all the confidence in the world. Of how easily he’d put a knife to Frank’s throat.</p><p><i>‘Of course it was,’</i> his brain snarls like a rabid animal before his thoughts could progress further, <i>‘Why else?’</i></p><p>Frank rubs his face with his hands with sudden exhaustion. His eyes flicker to the car dashboard: five twenty-two in the morning. What the fuck was he doing here?</p><p>He had driven to Julie’s house without even realizing he’d done so. It was only until his car stalled under the flickering street-lamp, the one near her house. All of the surrounding beige houses loom over him menacingly, as if demanding to know why trash like him was in a place like this. Frank couldn’t answer that. He stares into her window, which was closed shut with the curtains drawn. There was no doubt she was asleep, as was the rest of Ormond.</p><p>He could wake her up.</p><p>A few rocks to the window and she’d let him in without a second thought.</p><p>Then again, he couldn’t exactly explain his appearance, could he? The blood had finally begun to dry on the dark of his clothing, becoming nearly invisible unless one was looking for it. Yet the stench of copper lingers on him like flies on a corpse and he knows he probably has specks of Mr. Sullivan in his hair. He laughs at that— a shaky uncertain one— before he lights up a cigarette. </p><p>Selfishly, all he wants to do is kiss her. He wants to feel her plush, soft lips that would be such a contrast to the killer’s. They would feel much better, Frank was certain. When they always kissed, it was filled with fervor even when it was gentle and tender. How a kiss should be— even if it had never caused a knot in his stomach from the intensity like <i>the other one.</i></p><p>Look, Frank was incredibly experienced when it came to relationship shit: bouncing town after town, city after city, he always had a girl latch onto his arm. Amongst them, Julie was by far the only one who had managed to retain his attention. Not that she’d care. Which only made him like her more. The point is he had enough lips on him to be used to them. It wasn’t like him to get caught off-guard like that. It wasn’t like him to keep <i>fucking thinking about it.</i></p><p>He takes a few puffs of his cigarette before he glances over to his phone, still lit up with one new voicemail. He’d only noticed it when he had moved to rewind his mix-tape. He honestly wasn’t sure when the killer had left it— was it as soon as he left the house or a long while later when he realized that Frank wasn’t coming back? Frank tells himself he doesn’t care which.</p><p>He briefly considers throwing the phone out and running it over. He also considers listening to it. He decides to do neither, opening his glove compartment and throwing it carelessly inside. He stays there, listening to the music but not really, until his cigarette is burnt up and just a little stub. Then he drives home.</p><p>The early streaks of dawn were beginning to paint the sky when he enters, which was stupid and risky as Clive could have been sitting out in his easy chair, and then what would have Frank done? Luckily, the old man is nowhere to be seen, so he’s able to take a quick shower and throw his clothes in the wash, and put away anything incriminating before he finally, finally goes to sleep.</p><p>He dreams of dark eyes and cocky whispers.</p>
<hr class=""/><p>The news of the Sullivans spreads throughout the town like a wildfire. A photo of the two of them was circulated by the news station and newspaper offices that received it. The old fucks were bloody, nearly unrecognizable messes slumped over kitchen chairs, with chicken and spaghetti plated in front of each of them. In the middle of them like that painting of Jesus was the notorious serial killer, his hands mockingly outstretched wearing a bloodied apron that read: “Kiss the Cook”.  The irony is not lost on Frank.</p><p><i>‘You should feel proud,’</i> his mind chides him, <i>‘You’re the talk of the town.’</i></p><p>He isn’t quite sure when his inner voice began to sound like the other killer’s. But pride is the last thing he feels. And that only makes his blood boil, because he spent two fuckin’ weeks watching the most boring people on planet Earth and he has nothing to show for it. Whenever his eyes slip close, trying to remember the warmth of red liquid on him, he only remembers the warmth of the other man’s lips instead. </p><p>God fucking damn it. <i>God fucking damn it.</i></p><p>His hands fly to his dirty blond locks, ruffling them up in frustration. </p><p>What the <i>fuck</i> is wrong with you, Frank Morrison?</p><p>Acting like some fucking… girl. Over what? Some fucking bastard in a trash Halloween costume? The killer wasn’t anything special. He wasn’t even the scum under Frank’s shoe. Sure, Frank had used him for a cheap thrill, but that was about the extent of their relationship. He was just some fucking punk bitch under a mask who refused to show his face. He acted all high and mighty, but come on. It was <i>obvious</i> he was just some fucking loser with a knife. Probably ugly as shit too. That makes him feel a bit better.</p><p>When he steps out onto his porch later that day, there’s a special edition of the Roseville Gazette waiting for him, highlighting all the juicy little tidbits of the murder. He doesn’t bother to read it. Frank immediately knows it was the killer who left it there, probably to fucking taunt him.  He makes a grand show of throwing it away in the trash can behind his house. Just in case that fucking asshole was sitting around, watching him. Because evidently, he had nothing better to do with his time.</p><p>But Frank did. </p><p>He wasn’t about to sit around with that <i>disgusting</i> memory lingering in his head. He wasn’t about to waste another <i>millisecond</i> thinking about last night. He shrugs on his varsity jacket and locks the door behind him because he’s made plans to go talk to someone who was <i>actually</i> important. He leaves behind the cellphone, lit up with two voicemails. The notification only serves to make his stomach flip (in a bad way, <i>definitely).</i></p><p>Julie bounds down her front steps, giving a quick: “Bye, mom!” as she does so. Mrs. Kostenko peers out the door, spies Frank as he pulls up in his beat-up car, and shakes her head before she reenters the house. He wonders briefly how much they fought about her going out with him this time before he takes a moment to admire her as she comes up to the passenger side. She was back in her usual style of clothing: red-and-black flannel over a baggy Led Zeppelin shirt and scruffy grey jeans. She wore a black beanie over her loose blonde hair— which, thinking about it, might have actually been <i>his.</i> Frank thinks she looks gorgeous.</p><p>She flashes him a big grin and swings the door open, sliding in as she’s done a million times. “Damn, you’re such a gentleman. Got out for me and everything.”</p><p>“I didn’t want your mom to bitch.” Frank snorts, popping out his mixtape from the compartment knowingly. Normally, his car and his music, but Julie was the exception. She loved his metal almost as much as him, but she claimed it was always funnier to see Frank roll his eyes over the song playing. She opens the glove compartment, humming and shifting through the various tapes left by the Legion before she selects one. He glances at it briefly and resists the urge to sigh. <i>Of course.</i></p><p>“She would have bitched anyway. That’s her whole deal.”</p><p>Frank considers this briefly. “True.”</p><p>She pops in the dark blue tape and only a few notes of a synthesizer play before he pulls a face and reaches over, changing the song. “Nope.”</p><p>“Come on.” Julie bats her eyelashes. “Everyone likes Africa.”</p><p>“Fuck that,” Frank scoffs, but he can’t hide the smile on his face.</p><p>“Fine.” She crosses her arms, smiling as well as she tilts her head back against the seat. “But you can’t switch the next one.”</p><p>Billy Joel comes on and Frank decides he’s in hell before he drives off. One of these days, he was going to actually remember to throw away the stupid tape. For a street or two, they say nothing, listening to the music. With her by his side, it’s almost tolerable. There’s no one else he’d rather have next to him right now. No one. No one at all <i>(definitely).</i></p><p>Shit.</p><p>He needs to break the silence or else he was going to go fucking crazy. His fingers flex on the steering wheel.</p><p>“So—” They begin at the same time. She laughs and he’s always liked her laugh. It’s unapologetically loud, but not at all grating to listen to. She had this habit of tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear when she finished, like she was embarrassed about it. He didn’t see anything to be embarrassed about. He joins in with a chuckle.</p><p>“You first,” Frank takes his right hand off the steering wheel to give a dismissive wave. He didn’t really have plans for what to say anyway.</p><p>“We had a school assembly today,” Julie informs, staring straight ahead. She becomes lost in thought then, her mind back to a few hours earlier. “For Mr. Sullvian, I don’t know if you remember him.”</p><p>
  <i>He stares down at the cowering mess of a man, feeling nothing but amused as he begs and pleads for his life. It was the look of sheer despair upon the balding man’s face that sends the beginning of rapture through him. They both knew it was the end of the road, but it was Frank’s decision to make. For a second, he’s tempted to let him run. Just give a little bit more of a chase. Then the man says his name— the fact that he even dared to do so even when he was so beneath Frank makes him crash the bat down with a savagery he didn’t know he had.</i>
</p><p>“Sort of,” Frank replies.</p><p>“It sucked. We had to burn candles for him and then Principal Lockhart gave a speech on dealing with grief.” She lets out a mournful sigh. “Why couldn’t he have died last year when we had to read Lord of the Flies? At least they let us out of school early.”</p><p>“Think anyone’s gonna miss him?”</p><p>“No? He was a total sleaze. The world’s better off without him.”</p><p>Frank contemplates that. Maybe next time they should go for someone who was more well-liked. …Except, he reminds himself, there wasn’t going to be a ‘they’. He had made up his mind to never see the killer ever again. So next time, <i>he</i> should go for someone more well-liked. It definitely <i>(definitely)</i> wasn’t a big loss anyway. He could manage just fine on his own, McNamara attempt aside.</p><p>“Uh, that’s right. Wasn’t he sleeping with one of his students?”</p><p>“Oh grody. That wouldn’t surprise me if he was.” Julie makes a face. “He tried to get me to stay after-school a few times, but I told him I’d rather jump off a cliff. That shut him up for the rest of the semester.”</p><p>Billy Joel becomes The Romantics. Frank frowns at her as he stops at a red light. They were one of three cars out on the road, but they also spotted a few policemen walking along the storefronts. With how often he saw them roaming about, one would think the department was fucking massive. But there was only around twenty-two, give or take. When one of the pigs on the sidewalk glances at Frank’s car, both teenagers hastily point their eyes back to the road.</p><p>“You should have told me.”</p><p>“Why? So my big, bad boyfriend could beat him up?” Julie rolls her eyes. “You act like I wouldn’t have kicked him in the nutsack if he pulled something. Make it so he could never have kids.”</p><p>“Damn,” Frank whistles slowly. Julie probably would have fucked him up worse than Frank had, but now he was wishing he got an extra hit in with that bat. “You’re right. What was I thinking?”</p><p>“You weren’t, sadly.”</p><p>Frank laughs fondly. “I don’t talk to you for a week and suddenly you’re so fuckin’ mean, Jules.”</p><p>“A week?” She turns to him, puzzled. “Dude, you’ve been avoiding us way longer than that.”</p><p>It’s Frank’s turn to feel confused. “What are you talking about? I’m not avoiding you. We spoke over the phone.”</p><p>“Sure, for a whole whopping <i>ten minutes.”</i> She pauses, mulling over her words. “That’s honestly what I wanted to meet up for. I wanted to know what’s been up with you lately, but you sounded so off over the line. I thought maybe you needed some space. It’s like,” she puts her hand on his arm. “Every time we’ve asked you to hang out—”</p><p>“I’ve just been… busy,” Frank cuts in, pressing his foot on the pedal as the light turns green. His mind drifts to long talks in between the trees behind the Sullivans’. Of entering the house and studying every last detail he could, sometimes brushing shoulders with the ghost…</p><p>“Yeah. I know. That’s your go-to excuse now. Which is cool, I guess, we’re all busy lately. But you’ve been weird ever since they found The Frosted Man.”</p><p>Frank glares daggers at her as The Romantics become Journey. “Why are we back to this?”</p><p>Julie scoffs at his reaction, tugging on his sleeve. “Okay, you see yourself right now, right? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Why does it bother you so much?” </p><p>“Oh, you’re so right. Why would it bother me?” Frank’s voice drops to a harsh whisper as if someone was going to miraculously overhear them over Don’t Stop Believin’ and rolled up car windows. His palms are flat against the wheel. “We just killed someone, no big deal.”</p><p>Julie raises an eyebrow and drops her hand. “Frank, you’re fucking me right? Don’t act like killing that guy <i>bothered</i> you. I’m not stupid.”</p><p>
  <i>/  She took the midnight train going anywhere /</i>
</p><p>“It <i>did</i> bother me.”</p><p>“Yeah?” she deadpans, completely unconvinced.</p><p>“Yeah.” Frank glances at her from the corner of his eye. “It might have looked like I wasn’t bothered because I was so busy trying to be calm for the rest of you. But trust me, I still get nightmares about it.”</p><p>Julie watches him with a careful doubt, but relents and turns to look out the window. “Why do you think Ghostface took the credit?” His stomach twists at the mention of the other killer. Of course she’d bring him up.</p><p>
  <i>/ Their shadows searching in the night / </i>
</p><p>“The fuck would I know?”</p><p>She clicks her tongue in annoyance. “I’m not saying you know, I’m just saying it’s weird. Isn’t it weird? It just doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense.” That was Julie, always the goddamn logician.</p><p>Frank shrugs and mumbles out a “yeah, it’s weird”, because he can’t exactly tell her that he told the killer to take credit for the crime.</p><p>And he had done it.</p><p>Because... he liked him? The second he feels a small burning in his chest he mentally slaps himself. <i>OR,</i> he counters, he was playing nice in order to lure Frank into committing the crime. That was definitely it <i>(definitely).</i></p><p>“And the note—”</p><p>“— Was just some asshole trying to fuck with us,” Frank interrupts briskly. He forces himself to sound calm, cool, collected: “Jules, shit. You’re not seriously going to bring this up every single time we talk, are you?”</p><p>
  <i>/ Everyone wants a thrill /</i>
</p><p>
  <i>/ Paying anythin’ to roll the dice / </i>
</p><p>“Okay, fine. Whatever.” She lifts her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll drop it.” She doesn’t sound at all pleased at Frank’s dismissal.</p><p>Frank tries to give her some sort of attempt at a smile, maybe to show there’s no hard feelings. She pretends to be focused staring at the stores, jaw clenched and eyes hard. His smile quickly diminishes and for a brief second, he’s able to catch himself in the reflection of her window. The lack of sleep from late-night stalking made the bags under his eyes even more prominent.</p><p>“Look, I’m sorry,” he says it quickly to get it out of the way, “If I’ve been acting weird.”</p><p>“I just wish you’d tell me what was up,” Julie tells her reflection, “I know you want to act tough around Joey and Sus, but I could help if you told me what’s wrong.”</p><p>He wants to tell her that nothing was wrong. Well, nothing would be wrong anymore. Now that he and the other killer were finished. Now he’d be free to hang around the Legion whenever they want. Why doesn’t that comfort him as much as it should? It makes him feel… a bit upset? Which is stupid, because Frank never got torn up about anything. </p><p>Neither of them says anything as Journey becomes Tears for Fears. The blonde gives an inaudible sigh, only given away by the sagging of her shoulders. He almost wishes he said something after all. It’s only until Frank passes the diner two songs later does Julie blink out of their shared trance.</p><p>“You passed it.”</p><p>“I’m so fucking sick of that place,” Frank mutters, loud enough for her to hear. “I fucking <i>hate</i> acting like we’re just ordinary teenagers, like all the other fucking losers in Ormond.”</p><p>This seems to perk Julie up and she straightens in her seat. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that? Where we headed?”</p><p>“Let’s go to the lodge and get high.”</p><p>“Please and thank you!”</p><p>He knew there was a reason he liked her. When the light turns red, he glances over at her once more. His eyes fall to her lips, pink and shiny from gloss, as she begins to sing along to this nauseating pop song, getting the lyrics wrong but Frank makes no move to correct her. His left-hand traces his bottom lip. He’s heard the other killer croon out a line or two from this before:</p><p>
  <i>“I think you’re headed for a breakdown, so be careful not to show it...”</i>
</p><p>Feeling his eyes on her, she turns her head towards him. “What?”</p><p>Her question startles him. He’s forgotten that he was staring, lost in the memory of the killer’s song— which brings a new wave of shame over him. Why the fuck was he still thinking about the creepazoid anyway? He lets out an ‘oof’ as she punches his shoulder, teasingly but not lightly.</p><p>Frank turns his attention back to the road as the light turns green. “Nothing, nothing,” Frank says, “I uh, just thought you liked the diner.”</p><p>“Sure, but it’s not <i>us,”</i> Julie replies, like it’s all so simple, “Besides, ever since that waitress died, it’s been pretty awkward. They have a memorial up for her and you have to look at this weird picture of her hanging on the wall.”</p><p>He gives a hum of thought. “I guess dying makes you a better employee than you were.”</p><p>“Do you remember the time she got my drink order wrong twice in a row?”</p><p>“You wanted... a strawberry milkshake, right?”</p><p>“Right!” Julie gently smacks his thigh. “And the bitch brings me vanilla <i>then</i> chocolate. It really wasn’t that fucking hard!”</p><p>Frank sneers at the memory. “Three options. There are literally only three options and she fucked them up twice.” The two of them share a laugh at that.</p><p>“I felt bad when she died,” Julie’s mood shifts along with her next words. “It was surreal. After… you know, Fink, I thought that was it. I thought we’d be able to go back to some type of normal.” She rests her cheek on her knuckles, her elbow propped up on the passenger door. “I guess there’s never going to be a normal now. Ormond’s fucked.”</p><p>“We were never normal to begin with,” Frank declares as he pulls into the beginnings of Mount Ormond’s base. “We’ve got the popular girl, the artist, the shy nerd, and the dropout coming together to rob shit and terrorize this town.”</p><p>“Sincerely yours, the Breakfast Club.”</p><p>Frank snorts. “I don’t remember that part of the movie.”</p><p>“It was at the end, you fell asleep. But Judd Nelson gets them all to rob a store and they totally shank a janitor.”</p><p>“Damn, now I wish I stayed awake.”</p><p>“Well, when you stop being so busy, we can hang out and I’ll make you rewatch it with me.”</p><p>“What do I get in return?” Frank crooks his eyebrow and she eyes him up and down slowly in response.</p><p>“I can think of a few things,” she answers, cheekily. The implication should be enough to get him excited or something, but... nothing happens. He forces a lazy smirk to push down his unease at that realization. When the other man had fed him that same line, it felt like his skin had been set on fire. <i>Shit.</i></p><p>But that was… fine, Frank tries to reason with himself. He had just felt that way because it made him uncomfortable. </p><p><i>‘Except,’</i> his mind helpfully supplies, <i>‘you ate that shit up because you liked the attention, right?’</i></p><p>“Or not,” Julie chuckles, twirling a few loose strands around her finger as she glances back out the window. “I’m not that bad, you know.”</p><p>He looks back at her briefly before his eyes flicker back to the road. “What?”</p><p>“You’re making that face again,” she says it like it’s nothing serious, just a joke.</p><p>“What face?”</p><p>Unbeknownst to Frank, the smirk had been wiped off his face with relative ease. In its place was a deep, contemplative frown. His eyelids had fallen ever so slightly, hiding the gleam in his usually lively brown eyes. He had this look, like he was here but not here. It was in his voice too. He was somewhere else— far, far away. Julie wished he trusted her enough to tell her where. He’d always been closed off, it was one of the reasons she had found herself drawn to him in the first place. But nowadays, it worried her. He was one of her best friends and she’d be lying if she said she was fine being left behind like this.</p><p><i>‘Where are you, Frank Morrison?’</i>  She can’t find it in her to voice her question.</p><p>Instead, she says: “Nevermind.”</p><p>Frank doesn’t push it. A quiet engulfs the two teenagers and Julie has to crank down the window some, so the chilly Ormond air can remove the growing tension that had formed between them. Bruce Springsteen is playing. She pretends to be focused on the pine trees that littered the mountain, all of them as unassuming as ever. The sun was barely beginning to lower, but the sky had already begun to change from its blue hue to a faint pink. It caused the trees to have a longer shadow than usual.</p><p>Julie wasn’t even sure why Frank had called her. He doesn’t speak to her for more than a few sentences for weeks and all of a sudden it’s: <i>“Hi Jules, can we meet up? Like you said?”</i> She wanted to reject his invitation out, just like he’s been doing to the Legion, but god. He sounded so damn frazzled that she couldn’t bring herself to do it.</p><p>She makes up her mind not to try to pinpoint his problem any further; his walls were still up and any attempt might just make him more guarded. He called her because he wanted to get away from whatever was bugging him, that much was obvious. So alright. She could support him by just being with him. By giving him light-hearted conversations that could keep his mind occupied. Maybe that’d be enough. </p><p>“They decided on the theme for the dance.”</p><p>The clumps of dirt and twigs crackle beneath the tires. Frank stares ahead into the darkness of the trees, turns the car with practiced ease as the trail curves. They had finally removed the police tape that had blocked off the way to the lodge, but the route was still as empty as ever. He’s heard people mutter that that place was cursed, so it makes sense that no one would want to go up there— even out of morbid curiosity.</p><p>“Really? Ain’t that shit months away?”</p><p>“Time flies,” Julie reminds him good-humoredly, “Besides, I think you’ll like it.”</p><p>“Okay,” he drums his fingers rhythmically along with the song, “Shoot.”</p><p>“They’re calling it Fright Night. But well, it’s basically Halloween in June.”</p><p>Frank stifles a laugh. “That’s… pretty stupid.”</p><p>“Sure, but it’s better than ‘Under the Sea’ for the third year in a row.” </p><p><i>“Anything’s</i> better than that.”</p><p>She shimmies her shoulders a little as she leans over to him with hooded eyes. Her voice drops to a creepy whisper: “Wanna know why they chose it?”</p><p>“Why?” He grins as he looks at her, returning with the same inflection.</p><p>“Because…” She moves back, throwing her hands up. Her bracelets make a jingling sound as they clash amongst one another. “It’s gonna be Friday the thirteenth, baby!”</p><p>Her enthusiasm causes the laugh he was holding back to bubble out of him. “Halloween can’t even <i>be</i> on the same day as Friday the thirteenth.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up,” she playfully slaps his arm, “The point is, the formal committee is going all out. Costume party, freaky props, some DJ from Calgary. Susie’s told me all the details. She’s on it, you know.”</p><p>“Susie? <i>Our</i> Susie?”</p><p>“Guess she’s not as shy and as nerdy as you thought, huh?” She sticks out her tongue, revealing a silver barbell. She got it the same time he got his eyebrow piercing. She had held his hand so tightly he thought it was going to fall off from lack of blood circulation. Her parents had nearly killed them when they saw what Julie had done, but it was just proof of their bond to one another.</p><p>“We should go,” Frank decides. Catching her amused look, he goes on: “To support Sus.”</p><p>“Oh, of course, of course,” Julie replies.</p><p>They share a knowing smile.</p><p>Not much time has passed before Frank pulls up in front of the lodge and the two of them step out of the car. Julie slams the door a little too hard, causing a complaint from Frank. He walks over to her and they stare up at the lodge. The last time he had been up here, it had felt so… empty. Cold. But it appears more comforting now, against the pink and orange of the sky. Julie presses her shoulder into his own and he feels the warmth the lodge originally held.</p><p>“Do you smell that?” Frank asks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.</p><p>Julie nods with a grimace. “Death.”</p><p>They enter the wooden building, Frank making his way up the creaky steps in order to take whatever joints he didn’t already smoke. Julie stays in the foyer, taking in everything. He was sure she was unimpressed by the number of cobwebs and dust that had been built up. Frank pulls up the floorboard, grabbing a blunt for each of them. His eyes shift upwards to the door where he found the phone originally. </p><p>Even though he swore to himself he wouldn’t, his thoughts drift to the voicemails. It was eating at him. What was on them anyway? Was the other killer pissed? Or was the other killer going to terminate their partnership and act like nothing had ever happened? Frank… Frank wasn’t quite sure he wanted that. So what the fuck did he want then? He shakes his head to stop him from going down <i>that rabbit hole</i> and hastily returns downstairs.</p><p>“Our poor hideout.” Julie runs her hand along the initials they carved together, thumbing it before she outstretches her palm so Frank can pass her the lit joint. “We don’t come here for months and this place becomes a shithole.”</p><p>“It was always a shithole,” Frank scoffs and lights up his own, “But it's our shithole.”</p><p>They enjoy each other’s company for a while, exploring the resort like it was the first time they’ve been there. Frank’s almost through smoking his blunt when they find themselves laying on the floor, staring up at the broken chandelier that Julie insists was swaying. They’re laying opposite to one another, head-to-head, on top of an old rug Frank had unfurled.</p><p>“I’m going to miss this place,” Julie murmurs, burning out the tiny stub.</p><p>“Do you think there’s a darkness here?”</p><p>Julie tilts her head towards him at the strange question. “A darkness?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>She returns to the chandelier. She <i>swears</i> it's moving, just a bit, from the breeze. “No.” After a moment, she presses: “Why? Do <i>you</i> think there’s a darkness here?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Frank says it so faintly that she turns on her side to face him better. He has that faraway look. She daintily runs her fingers through his dirty blond hair, hoping it brings him back to her. He doesn’t protest. “Are you afraid of it?”</p><p>He meets her eyes, as green and as bright as they’ve ever been. He’s gotten accustomed to seeing death in people’s stares, but hers is full of life. He takes it in, the feeling of being alive and being next to someone who doesn’t bring death everywhere they go. It’s a feeling he didn’t realize he missed, but he also feels disconnected from it. When he first came to the lodge, he might have been afraid of that fact. But now…</p><p>He thinks of dark eyes and cocky whispers.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>She smiles, gently, and presses her lips against his. It’s soft and kind. She tastes like her gloss, familiar and safe. He leans into it, but the kiss never becomes deep. They pull apart after a few seconds. Her smile is dazzling, radiant, like summer night skies twinkling full of constellations he doesn’t know the names of. She’s absolutely beautiful. And Frank?</p><p>Frank feels nothing.</p>
<hr class=""/><p>It’s around two in the morning when he returns home. Clive isn’t in his easy chair, but he can hear him snoring down the hall. Frank quietly closes the door behind him. Once Clive was out he was a hibernating bear, but he didn’t want to take any chances. The dropout enters his room and flicks on the light. He sighs deeply, rubbing his face with one hand, as he goes towards his bed. Exhaustion has become his middle name.</p><p>He pauses, however, when he notices a few items on his bedside dresser. A shiver crawls up his spine, picking up the photos that have been so carefully leaned onto his elephant. The first one is of him, throwing the newspaper away. On the bottom left corner is a frowny face drawn in permanent marker. He stares at it, dumbfounded because he hadn’t actually seen anyone around when he had <i>done</i> it.</p><p>Frank places the photo behind the other one. Dread seizes his heart. This photo is of him. And Julie. It’s outside her house and she’s leaning over the passenger seat. His head is tilted towards her, facing away from the camera. On the bottom left corner of this one are a frowny face and two large exclamation points. </p><p>His eyes fall back to the dresser and he puts the photos back, flat with the images facing down. On top of his phone is a yellow post-it note that, in meticulously pristine handwriting, read:</p><p>
  <i>Listen to your voicemails, partner! </i>
</p><p>
  <i>Love, GF</i>
</p><p>There’s a knot in his stomach and Frank steadies his breathing, which has begun to grow shaky. He obliges then, opening his phone to see a notification for five different voicemails. The notification taunts him with its simplicity. Frank swallows thickly, like he’s just taken medicine, before he presses play on the first one.</p><p>A familiar rasp comes through: <i>“Aw, partner!”</i> The killer’s words are sickeningly sanguine. <i>“Did you actually leave? After all the hard work we put into this? Tsk, tsk. How very ungrateful.” </i></p><p>“You have four new voicemails. Would you like to continue?” The robotic, feminine voice asks. Frank clicks the play button.</p><p><i>“Frankie, sweetheart.”</i> The endearment is purred out and he sounds as jovial as ever. <i>“I went through all that trouble getting that paper and you don’t even want to read it? You’re being so very dramatic.”</i></p><p>Frank presses the next button. He wasn’t here for this one. It was around the time he and Julie were in the car, heading to the diner.</p><p>
  <i>“Don’t act like you didn’t like it. Like you weren’t teasing me the entire time. You knew what you were doing. You lapped up my attention, didn’t you? Because you knew what you wanted. Stop acting so shy, it’s not like you at all.”</i>
</p><p>That one causes the heat to rise up his face, scorching his skin as it does so. He falls back on the bed, replays that one again. The other killer’s tone was still cheery, but he can hear the faintness of a strangled aggravation behind his words. Frank always did like irritating him. He shifts with a growing discomfort as he clicks the next one.</p><p><i>“Well, would you look at that! You didn’t even take your phone with you. And here I was, thinking you were just ignoring my calls while you were off on your little date.”</i> There’s a dissonant laugh and the sound of things clattering around and Frank knows this is when the killer was in his room.</p><p>His voice drops to a sinister snarl: <i>“You know, you’re really starting to piss me off. You do one kill and suddenly you’re, what? Finished?”</i> There’s a pause. A long pause. When he speaks again, he seems to struggle for a moment before he returns to that familiar playful sound: <i>“No, no, don’t be silly! You’re better than that, sweetheart. You know you’re better than that, baby boy.”</i></p><p>Frank’s breath hitches at the change in the killer’s voice. This felt raw, real, the closest he’s gotten to the person behind the mask. His heart pounds, but it’s not out of fear. His tiredness has left him and he makes quick work of unbuttoning his jeans. One hand slithers down beneath his briefs, the other replays the message. When the killer’s voice becomes dark once more, he allows himself to loosely grasp his stiffening member. It was stupid, this was stupid. His mind is yelling at him but his body is commandeering him.  His eyes squeeze shut as he tightens his hold. He wasn’t an expert by any means, usually had a girl’s mouth over it instead, but he pictures a gloved hand in place of his own and it becomes enough.</p><p>The costumed killer is pinning him onto the bed, stroking him lazily and Frank is squirming under him but he doesn’t relent. You like this. You want this. You want me, baby boy. No, he isn’t into… He despises the very idea… But the killer’s anger replays on the phone and shit, it’s driving him up the wall and his mind is blacking in and out like a fucked up vhs tape.</p><p>“Ha, fuck, G-Ghost—” It takes whatever shred of sanity he still has to hold in the babble that was attempting to spill from his lips.</p><p>Instead, he whimpers and stifles the cry that threatens to escape him as he begins to pump himself up and down with a feverish pace. What the fuck was wrong with him? He listens to it again. Why did the other killer make him feel this way? It was so different, so new, so <i>dangerous.</i> Frank curves his back off the bed, going faster and faster and his pants are so tight around him and it’s too much but fuck fuck fuck!</p><p>He places his arm over his mouth, phone still dangling from his hand as he makes a needy, throaty sound that would have woken up anyone else. He’s dizzy. Even behind his eyelids, he feels everything spin and his hand is clammy and slick with his juices. He wishes the other killer really was here, watching him or helping him— he doesn’t give a shit which right now but god he <i>needs</i> him. He’s always fucking needed him. <i>What?</i> He doesn’t want to think about that too deeply.</p><p>He spills himself, knows he made a mess, hot and sticky in a terrible paradox of shame and euphoria. He gasps, his chest heaving up and down as he comes down from the aftermath. Frank takes a minute, an incredibly long minute, before he slowly returns the phone to his ear.</p><p>“You have one new voicemail. Would you like to continue?” The robotic, feminine voice asks. Frank clicks the play button with trembling fingers. This newest one was when he was up at the lodge with Julie, late into the night.</p><p><i>“What’s your plan here, Frankie? How do you avoid a ghost?”</i>  Ghostface asks in a slow, calculated casual manner. He gives a hum of thought after a brief pause. <i>“You know, that’s what I like about you. You always make the game more exciting. Alright then, I’ll play along.”</i></p><p>There’s an abrupt stop to the message and Frank stares at his ceiling, specks of stars still in his vision and he forces himself to rise up. Leaving the phone, he makes his way to the bathroom to clean himself up. What the fuck did Ghostface mean by ‘playing along’? Frank’s mind is moving at a sluggish pace and he’s unable to come up with any answers. He fucking <i>despises</i> not knowing anything about the other killer. The dropout heaves a sigh as he stares into the dirty mirror. This was a pathetically familiar scene and Frank’s half-tempted to punch through the glass and destroy his reflection, but he doesn’t have it in him right now. As much as he wants to flare up with anger, he just can’t bring himself to do so.</p><p>Upon finishing and reentering his room, he’s startled as he notices that the phone is lit up once more. He walks up to it like it's a ticking bomb, his eyes narrowing with suspicion as he sees the notification for one new voicemail. He throws himself back on the bed, letting his head fall back against the pillow, and debates with himself about opening it before he finally does. </p><p>A dark chuckle comes through and when Ghostface speaks, his tone is sleazy but tantalizing all the same: <i>“Invite me next time.”</i></p><p>He tilts his head towards the closed window but the ghost is nowhere to be seen, and he’s suddenly too sleepy to contemplate the repercussions of what he just did and what the other killer just told him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">Frank is an emotionally stunted teenage boy living in a time where toxic masculinity was the norm, who just committed a double homicide and had a sexual awakening in one night. I felt like he needed some room to breathe and try to regain some semblance of normalcy. I couldn’t picture him miraculously accepting his feelings in a span of a day, nor could I picture him talking about his feelings to anyone (Ghostie especially).</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">That being said, Ghostface is less than pleased about that ☹ !! I'm very excited for next Monday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">Thank you so much to Megidola and Bwoo for beta-reading this chapter, your encouragements and help means the world to me!</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Beneath the Mask</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>People came and went in Frank’s life, it was just an inevitability that he had long steeled himself for. Frank had learned a very long time ago that making relationships was a useless endeavor. He was bounced from foster home to foster home, but he couldn’t name you half of the people he stayed with. He went from school to school, had lackey after lackey, but he couldn’t name you half of the people he hung around with. The Legion was a rarity and even he’s kept them a safe distance away from his heart. It was just… safer that way. For everyone.</p><p>Frank grew up in a world of solitude, in a world where he was either placed on a pedestal too far away from the rest of humanity or placed far below everyone else to the point of inhumanity. It was fine. It <i>had</i> to be. As the years passed, Frank learned to make the loneliness he felt his friend instead of his enemy. He played a strong act, shrugging off each broken relationship as if it was something he longed for rather than dreaded.</p><p>And so, when three days had passed without any word from Ghostface, he did what Frank Morrison always did. He went about his business as if nothing had ever happened. He eased himself back into the persona he knew best— the one who loitered the streets and watched shitty rentals with the Legion and entered work ten minutes past his shift. Whenever Frank would find his gaze wandering, trying to find the cloaked ghost, he would dig his nails into his palm and continue on like he wasn’t searching for anyone.</p><p>This is what he wanted, he has to remind himself at night when he keeps staring out the window for some sort of sign. When he finds himself unable to sleep because he keeps waiting for his phone to light up with the voicemail that never came.</p><p>On the fourth day, he finds himself perking up whenever he gets a phone call at work. Frank laughs at himself each time he hangs it up, growing more and more vexed with the pathetic little hope that tried to show itself. He certainly didn’t give a shit if the other killer had moved on— Frank <i>wanted</i> him gone. Now Ghostface was gone. He played along, just like he said he would. Frank supposes he and Ghostface were similar in that regard— they could both lure people in, get them comfortable and close, then walk away like nothing ever happened.</p><p>Five days without a call or a note or anything and Frank decides the only reason he’s feeling this way is because he misses the thrill and high that came with committing murder. He finds a young man, almost roughly his age, and starts learning his routine at night. By day eight, he’s <i>bored.</i> The man isn’t interesting enough to keep his attention and truth be told, Frank… there’s no rush. There’s no desire for power. Frank feels… nothing.</p><p>No. That was a lie. By day ten, he is acutely aware of this pain. It’s too familiar a feeling, but it’s not one he experienced in a very long time. Everyone felt it differently. Some might feel it as a hollowness, a part of you carved out. Some might feel it with the intensity of a raging fire that consumed everything in its path. For Frank, it felt… dull. It was a constant throbbing, there to remind him that it existed and nothing more. He knew the name of it, of course, but the very idea of it makes him scoff and roll his eyes because that wasn’t <i>something Frank Morrison felt.</i></p><p>He pretends, even as it continues to pulse within his chest, that he was fine. Frank spends more time with the Legion and it’s selfish. He can’t bring himself to care about what they were learning about or doing in their spare time, but he needs their company to get rid of this fucking ache. Yet even when he’s surrounded by the warmth of his family, even as he laughs along with their jokes, and even as he’s showered in attention— the pain never subsides.</p><p>On day twelve, he’s anxiously keeping an eye on the news. It was almost two weeks and he <i>knew</i> the killer would strike again. He had the small mountain town gripped with fear and there was no way he was just going to let that go just to spite Frank. <i>Right?</i> The news reporter lady manages to stay professional even as fear cracks her voice: “There are two days left before The Ghost of Ormond takes another victim, but the police are doing all they can...” and Frank finds himself wishing that the days went faster.</p><p>He keeps by his phone, checking the screen over and over because what if the other killer asks him to accompany him on this crime? They worked so well together last time. Was Ghostface really just going to drop that? The killer was the one who agreed to their partnership, who called him first, <i>who fucking kissed him.</i> Ghostface clearly needed Frank more than Frank needed him. Obviously. </p><p>Day thirteen. He’s smoking pack after pack of cigarettes like there’s no tomorrow. The Legion asks him to hang out, but he can’t. He’s not busy, he just… can’t. Joey and Susie try to prod, clearly worried about their leader, but Julie tells them to back off. “It’s alright,” she says  soothingly, like he’s some fucking wild stray she’s trying to tame, “Just feel better.”</p><p>Truthfully, he just needed to be around his phone just in case the serial killer called him. Daylight eventually fades. At night, as he forces himself into his bed, his mind runs wild trying to think of who the newest victim was. How Ghostface did it. If Ghostface was content to work without him. If Ghostface even <i>missed</i> his presence. That only serves to make the dull ache fester, become more like a constant needle rather than just a little throb.</p><p>The morning of day fourteen he leaps out of bed like it’s Christmas-fucking-day and he rushes to the television. Clive is there, surprised to see Frank look so excited, but switches from some talk show to the news on Frank’s insistence. “I don’t know why you’re so eager, kid,” Clive had grunted as he flipped through the channels. “It’s just gonna be some more tragic shit.”</p><p>Ghostie would laugh, Frank thought, if he knew that he still made the top story without even having to commit a crime. The dropout instantly deflates, listening to the news lady who’s beaming from ear to ear. “Maybe,” she tells her co-host, “He moved on to another town.”</p><p>“Ormond can finally go back to normal,” her co-host sounds just as relieved as she does.</p><p>No way. Frank can’t believe it. He staggers backward as the bewilderment runs like static electricity through his veins. He wasn’t <i>going</i> to believe it. That… That couldn’t be it. No fanfare, no heartfelt goodbye, no phone call saying that he was off to go fuck up some other town? Nothing? No. That wasn’t how the other killer operated. Ghostface would want to leave only after the town was on its hands and knees groveling for safety to return, only after he stained the streets red and left the town an empty shell of its former self. </p><p>But then again, how would Frank know? He didn’t know the other killer or who was beneath the cold plastic mask. He was essentially working with a stranger this whole time. Isn’t that he wanted? <i>‘Work associates, nothing more,’</i> his mind helpfully recalls. The pain stabs at his heart and he turns away from the television, ignoring whatever idiocy Clive was probably spewing as he storms out the door. </p><p>The killer <i>couldn’t</i> be gone. </p><p>Because if the killer was gone, that was it. Ormond would go back to being this boring little place and Frank would be right back where he started. He throws his headphones on, presses play on his walkman, and briskly begins walking as he ignores that stupid pain. It only felt stronger, like it was gripping his heart and squeezing it like a lemon. </p><p><i>God damn it.</i> He claws at his face. Frank knew exactly what the fucking feeling was. Utter, complete fucking loneliness. At first, he couldn’t understand why after all this time it sprung up on him again. Wasn’t he with his friends? Wasn’t he glad to be rid of the killer? But the truth looked fucking straight at him whenever he saw his own reflection. He always thought that the Frank Morrison that was a troublemaker dropout with no future was exactly who he was always meant to be. </p><p>Now… Now he had started to learn about a different side of himself. This Frank Morrison could have everything he ever wanted. He could be more than just some fuck-up that society dismissed. When Ghostface first called him, <i>fuck,</i> it was like someone saw who he really was after all this time. Saw that the smiling paper mask wasn’t the only one he’d been wearing. Frank had finally begun to lift up the mask to reveal the true self that hid beneath. But with Ghostface gone, it slammed back down on him.</p><p>He was both puppet-master and marionette, controlling himself on tangled strings. Without Ghostface, he was back to being the only Frank Morrison he knew how to be. It was terrible, awful, dreadful, any other fucking word in the thesaurus. It felt like he was walking in someone else’s skin. Frank fucking hates having to rely on anyone, especially a stranger like Ghostface. But he longs to be seen again, he longs to be with someone who understands him, who accepted who he really was—  even if Frank didn’t know who that was completely. But Ghostface was gone now. The revelation causes his loneliness to consume him whole.</p><p>It’s a handful of days into April now. The weather was a movie cliché: gloomy and grey, a few clouds in the sky that were threatening rain. The only thing that was missing was some lady singer in the background crooning about how sad she was or whatever the fuck. For springtime, it was still as cold as ever. The snow wasn’t as deep, but it was only slowly melting. </p><p>Frank wonders, as he stares out the gas station window and chews on an unlit cigarette, how different everything would be if The Frosted Man had stayed buried. It seemed like they would have been in the clear until the late summer months, but by then they would have been long gone. It didn’t really seem like the world had changed that much. The town moved on from poor Fink fast. The teenagers were never really suspected, except for McNamara’s baseless accusations. For the other three members of Legion, it was a distant memory and nothing more. </p><p>If the body was never uncovered, would he have ever met the other serial killer? If Ghostface hadn’t been there to pick apart his facade, would he have eventually moved on too? Would Frank have been better off for it? All questions that would never have answers. The phone rings and Frank stifles a yawn. It was almost six hours into his shift, so it was probably his boss telling him he could take a break. Though it wasn’t like he had really been working hard.</p><p>Frank lets the phone ring a bit as he stretches, bringing back the function in his legs that were stiff from sitting on a stool the entire time. He picks up on the fourth ring. “Petro and Park, your place for gas and other shit. How can I help your sorry ass?” Frank drones into the phone like a good little employee, more fascinated with the faded scars on his hand rather than the call.</p><p>The line is quiet.</p><p>Guess Steve didn’t like his little improvisation. “Hello?” He leans his ear into the receiver.</p><p>“Frank?”</p><p>The dropout blinks in surprise. That wasn’t the voice he had expected to hear. It’s as high-pitched and obnoxious as usual, but he’s almost glad to hear it. Something to break up the monotony of the day. Though… Why would Florida be calling Frank? Wouldn’t his cop boyfriend be pretty pissed that he was going behind his back? Maybe he needed more Ghostface information? Frank inwardly snorts at that. Not like he had any to provide.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s me.”</p><p>“Oh good,” Florida sounds relieved. A slight pause. “Umm, is… is that really how you a-answer the phone?”</p><p>Whatever gratitude he had to the other male leaves in an instance. Frank was not going to hear this from the guy who stuttered every other word. His voice hardens: “What do you want?” </p><p>“It j-just doesn’t seem good for b-business…” Florida quietly tries to explain his case and Frank can’t help but roll his eyes. He was the same as ever.</p><p>“Did you call just to shit talk my work ethic or?”</p><p>“Ack, no, no, sorry!” Florida stammers out a quick apology. He could visualize the man on the other end, shaking his head with his eyes wide behind his glasses. “I… I know Officer McNamara doesn’t want me to talk to you,” He lingers a little before there’s a shuffling noise. He gets closer to the phone, bravely going on as his voice drops to a whisper: “B-but this is imp... imp-portant.”</p><p>Frank leans back against his seat, his back smacking the cabinet of cigarette cartons. The glass clatters a little, but he can’t hear it over the thundering of his heart in his ears. What the hell? He’s never heard the reporter so <i>afraid</i> before and his mind begins to race from the possibilities. Maybe... maybe Ghostface was targeting him? That thought eases him, just the tiniest bit. It’d be a little fucked up if Florida died, sure. He wasn’t that bad of a guy, but that would mean Ghostface was still around after all.</p><p>“It’s… It’s about the Sullivans.”</p><p>
  <i>Oh.</i>
</p><p>The phone, suddenly, feels weightless in his hand. The whole world, suddenly, feels too much. Did Ghostface fuck him over? Leave evidence that would incriminate him? Was that how he was ‘playing along’? He couldn’t panic. He couldn’t panic. Even as everything is whirling around in his vision and his skin grows cold and clammy like a decomposing corpse, he couldn’t panic. He takes a quiet, steady breath and hopes it’s inaudible over the line. Frank knows he’s taken a while to reply, but that’s alright. He doesn’t notice that the unlit dart has fallen from his mouth.</p><p>Florida was stupid. Florida was as stupid as the rest of them. They forgot The Frosted Man, they couldn’t solve the diner girl, and they won’t solve the crime of these two old fucks. He thinks back to the cafe, where the reporter seemed to stare right through his lies, and his grip tightens on the phone to keep it from slipping and falling. <i>Relax, moron!</i> The reporter was talking, he realizes, but he couldn't make out the words. </p><p>“Uh, that couple that died?”</p><p>Frank was as surprised as Florida to hear himself speak. “Oh!” Florida stops whatever nonsensical shit he was blathering to focus back on Frank. “Yes, as I was s-saying, um, that’s them.”</p><p>“Okay,” Frank pretends like he’s not impatient to get to the point. Slowly, the world begins to return to its usual state as he regains control of the situation. “What about them?”</p><p>“Ah…” Florida falls silent. Then, he tries to speak again, “I…” He seems to be really struggling with what he wanted to say. Frank doesn’t rush him, can’t make himself seem desperate for what the other had to tell him. “Would… would it be p-possible to meet somewhere?”</p><p>Frank immediately stiffens, on high alert like a Buckingham Palace guard. “Why?”</p><p>“Frank,” Florida pleads through quivering words, “I can’t... I can’t tell you over the line. I… I  promise I wouldn’t ask this of you if it wasn’t important to d-discuss.”</p><p>No. Absolutely not. Florida wasn’t like the other adults in Ormond, but he was still working with that cop. What if this was just some fuckin’ trap? Florida would never have the balls to call him if McNamara didn’t allow it. Frank grit his teeth together, mulling over his options. If he refused to go, however, what if that made him more suspicious? Or what if Florida was trying to help him before the cop found something out? </p><p>Frank wants to laugh at that.</p><p>“What would I have to talk about?” Frank decides to continue the act, trying to draw more information out from the reporter.</p><p>“I was doing some… some investigation work,” Florida admits slowly, “Without McNamara. He didn’t want to go along with a h-hunch of mine. And I’m w-worried for you, Frank.”</p><p><i>Shit shit shit.</i> “Me? Why?”</p><p>Another quiet falls over the two and he squeezes his eyes shut. Fuck. Alright, think Frank. He said he went without that shitty cop. So maybe there was a possibility that this wasn’t just some set-up by him after all. The smallest part of him wants to believe that, but he can’t. It just wasn’t in his nature.</p><p>“We could… meet at the cafe,” Frank tries. It’s never that crowded, but there were enough people in case there needed to be witnesses.</p><p>“I’m sorry. Is there somewhere more p-private we could go?”</p><p>He really wasn’t going to make this easy on him, was he? Frank sighs, this time audibly and he swears he can picture Florida cringe over the line. <i>Alright.</i> If this was the game they were going to play, so be it. He knew the perfect place, where he’d have the home field advantage if needed. </p><p>“You know that old lodge, up there in the mountains?”</p><p>“The um, one you and your friends used to go to?”</p><p>“Yeah. Would that work?”</p><p>“I think so…” Florida thinks about it briefly. “Would, um, to-tonight work? Eight o’clock?”</p><p>Frank’s eyes fall to his shoes, beat-up old burgundy converse he’s had since early sophomore year. When he first came to Clive’s, the old man promised he’d buy him a brand new pair so he wouldn’t have to look at those raggedy things anymore. It didn’t pan out. Frank clenches his jaw, feeling a sudden surge of anger from the memory.</p><p>“Yeah,” he swallows back his temper before they can reach his words, “Yeah. That’s fine.”</p><p>“Thank you, Frank,” Florida tries to sound comforting, but worry still underlines his tone. “I’ll see you then.”</p><p>Before Frank can even reply, the line went dead. After a moment, after he processes what the fuck just happened, he bends down. Picks up the cigarette, lights it, and puts it to his lips.</p><p>The darkness of the night slowly falls over Ormond, and the stars were so dim they were barely noticeable. The moon peers down at Frank, its mischievous smile being the only part of it lit up. Frank twirls his knife in his trembling hand, but he steadies it as he grasps the knife’s hilt. He couldn’t be afraid of what was to come. If he had to, he could take down the reporter with ease. His dumb oversized clothing, after all, only served to show just how wimpy Florida’s physique was.</p><p>“You can do this, Frank,” he mumbles to himself, pocketing the blade in his leather jacket. He couldn’t risk taking the turtleneck tonight, as too much black in his outfit might give away his potential intentions. Instead, he throws on a gray shirt, camo-patterned jeans, and shoes he can run in. He opens his drawer, stares down at the grinning mask. He begins to reach for it, but pauses and draws his hand back. He can’t take it with him. Tonight, he’ll have to make do with his other mask.</p><p>He breezes past Clive. “I’m off to visit Julie,” he says and exits before he can hear Clive’s muttered goodbye. He closes the door behind him, locks it, and scans the surrounding area. Why was he still hoping to catch a glimpse of that stupid white mask? He scowls and kicks his foot against the door before he enters his beat-up car. When he starts up the car, all too familiar notes of a synthesizer begin to play. He ejects the mixtape immediately, swapping it out for a pure black one that Joey had drawn white skulls on. Guitars begin to shred and he begins to drive.</p><p>Without someone to accompany him, the ride up to Mount Ormond seemed to be so much longer. Perhaps it was because there was so much shit going on in his head: every single red light seemed like an invitation for his mind to berate him and beg him to turn back. With each new street he passed, came a new wave of paranoia as he looked around for any cop cars or any other car that might be following him. There was nothing, there was always nothing.</p><p>He smacks his palm against the top of his steering wheel. What if there was an armada of cops waiting for him, waiting to hail bullets on him like he was Scarface? Quietly, a new voice made itself known: <i>Why would Florida do that?</i></p><p>He’s done nothing but stick up for Frank and treat him kindly, even offering him advice and shit he didn’t want. He lied to McNamara for Frank. What’s to say that he wouldn’t do something similar now? Maybe that’s why he wanted the secrecy, maybe he really was trying to keep this from McNamara. For the first time in weeks, the ache in his chest was replaced by the faintest of hope, no matter how much he didn’t want to feel it.</p><p>Maybe… Just maybe…</p><p>He weaves through the trees, doing his best to ignore just how unsettling they appeared to be when they were shrouded by the black night. He makes that usual turn and as he exits the forest, he spies Ormond Resort. The kindness has been stripped from the lodge once more and Frank’s reminded of Dracula’s castle. More importantly, he can make out a singular car parked directly beneath the building. It nearly blends into the darkness of the scene and he squints to look at it better, but can’t make out much even with his high beams on.</p><p>Frank could still turn back. No, wait. Someone steps out of the parked car. They’re tall and lean. He’s been spotted. He can’t be afraid of this. It was now or never. He inhales deeply, exhales as his lungs beg for air, and turns off his engine. It rumbles in protest before it shuts up and he’s comforted by the idea of his knife in his pocket as he steps out. His back is to the trees as he makes his way forward. The figure makes their way forward.</p><p>He steps closer.</p><p>The man steps closer.</p><p>Frank’s steps are much smaller than the stride the other man seemed to be doing. He has a fucking awful feeling about all of this, his stomach twists and turns until it’s just a bundle of knots. </p><p>They continue this little dance until Frank can see the details of his clothing and his face and he stills. The man doesn’t seem to be bothered by this, coming closer and closer until they were only a few feet apart. Frank’s gaze quickly shifts back towards his car. He can make a run for it.</p><p>“I wouldn’t if I were you,” calls the man. The smug tone makes the blood rush out of Frank’s face.</p><p>There, standing before him, is Officer McNamara. </p><p>Of course. Of <i>fucking</i> course. How could he have ever thought anything would have been different? How could he have fucking even dared to believe the reporter? All adults were the fucking same, so quick to try to lure teenagers in and quash their fucking trust right in front of them. The ache returns tenfold. Frank’s hands ball into fists, wondering if Florida was laughing this up wherever the <i>fuck</i> he was.</p><p>Frank sneers. Fine. So Florida betrayed him, but that didn’t mean he was going to lose this game. He still had his knife and if the officer tried anything, Frank would be happy to gut him like the miserable pig he was. Maybe he should thank that fucking asshole because now he could finally kill McNamara like he’s planned so long ago. </p><p>“Sup.” His hand flitters to his pocket, gripping the handle of the knife.</p><p>“As courteous as ever, I see.” McNamara watches the dropout’s movement carefully. He has to brace himself, keep himself ready for anything. Morrison was a <i>murderer</i> and if he wasn’t too careful, he could end up being the next victim. The dropout is glaring at him with intense ferocity and he can’t help but feel a wave of self-satisfaction. It was obvious that he wasn’t the face Morrison expected to see, but Olsen had played his part wonderfully. </p><p>The reporter had greatly protested being part of his plan. Why the reporter had thought he could try to form a friendship with this unfeeling monster was beyond him. It was a shame, really. Morrison was just another unfortunate fuck-up of the Canadian foster system, but he was too far gone to be saved. Now the only thing that mattered was getting justice for his victims.</p><p>“Why did you have Florida call me here?” Frank questions, doing his best to keep cool.</p><p>The cop’s face scrunches up in puzzlement before he laughs. “Florida? Do you mean Olsen? Is that how little you thought of the poor man, Morrison? You couldn’t even remember his name? You know, he thinks so highly of you.”</p><p>Frank doesn’t reply to that, his feet digging into the snow so much that they reached the dirt. </p><p>Officer McNamara shakes his head. “I’ll be honest with you. I was on the line as the two of you spoke. I had Olsen call you because I knew he’s probably the only man on this planet who could get you to come up here.”</p><p>“Here?” Frank’s mouth dries. “You wanted me to come to the lodge?”</p><p>McNamara jerks his head to the side and Frank’s gaze follows his movement. He knows the man wants him to look past the trees, up thirty minutes away to a burial site. “How does it feel to return to the scene?”</p><p>Frank scoffs. “I don’t know what you’re—”</p><p>“Isn’t it odd,” McNamara cuts in, never taking his eyes off him, “That a body that has been dead for months was found not too far from here? In a place where only four people are known to frequent, because everyone else is afraid of them? And isn’t it odd that those same four people conveniently stopped visiting their meeting spot around the end of the year?” He pauses, allowing the words to sink into Frank. “And Morrison, answer me this, isn’t it odd there were four similar knives used?”</p><p>“None of that is proof of anything,” Frank replies, cold.</p><p>“You’re right.” McNamara nods in agreement. “None of this <i>is</i> proof. But it is probable cause, enough to get a warrant and raid your homes. I’d be willing to bet that I’d find every single knife used in the attack. Wouldn’t I?”</p><p>The dropout lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Probable cause? There’s no fucking motive.”</p><p>“I think there is,” McNamara returns, as calm as if he was holding a casual conversation,  “What if... The Frosted Man’s name is Gregory Fink, a janitor who happened to work at Mr. Lewis’s old place of employment?” The cop watches as the dropout’s face twists to something unreadable. “And what if four teenagers decided to get revenge on the store that fired Mr. Lewis? A burglary gone wrong, I’ll reckon. I’m sure everyone involved was caught off-guard. Perhaps someone panicked and struck first...”</p><p>“That…” Frank tightens his hand around the knife. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”</p><p>“That’s fine,” McNamara replies with a half-shrug. “I don’t expect you to admit anything, Morrison. You’ve been safe under the assumption that The Frosted Man was a Ghostface crime, but unfortunately for you…” His eyes narrow to small slits. “You can’t hide behind an alter ego.”</p><p>“You… You think I’m Ghostface?” Frank asks, faintly. McNamara smiles. The dropout was quite the stubborn liar, he had to give it to him. Yet his passive demeanor broke over the mention of the masked serial killer. Perhaps he hadn’t been expecting McNamara to solve that case either, had he? </p><p>“It’s a clever disguise,” McNamara praises tauntingly, “Do you stuff your boots to make yourself taller?”</p><p>“Why would you think I’m…?” Frank trails off, his mind scrambling to think back to the night of the murder. Had he left something behind that incriminated him? Did Ghostface leave a clue pointing to Frank in the photo of the Sullivans? <i>Fuck,</i> why had he been so quick to throw away that stupid paper?</p><p>McNamara began to reach into his pocket and Morrison tensed. McNamara pauses, for a moment, raising his palm flat to show that he wasn’t reaching for his weapon. Morrison doesn’t budge, staring at him like he’s a caged animal. If things went swimmingly, soon he would be. After a few long seconds, the cop pulls out a small notepad. He takes a moment to read the words in the dark before he clears his throat:</p><p>“March 29th, 1997. Time: 11:23am. On a hunch, Olsen asked to check out the rental store. I was hesitant to see why it’d matter to the case, but he insisted. We spoke to a clerk there and he said, quote: ‘Yeah, Mrs. Sullivan came here a few days before she died. There was this guy with a neck tattoo and he was watching her funny. I brought it up and he flipped me off. Then, he followed after her. That was the last time I ever saw her.’”</p><p>Frank was about to speak when McNamara continued: “We asked him about the tattoo and he said, quote: ‘It was funny looking. Like a skull with a jester cap? Definitely something I’ve never seen before.’” The officer closes the notepad. “Now, Morrison, Ormond is a pretty small town, wouldn’t you say? And wouldn’t you say that the odds of two people having that specific tattoo in that specific location would be rather low?”</p><p>“So what?” Morrison let out a strangled noise like he was trying to hold back his anger. He failed. “Yeah, I saw her. So what? That doesn’t matter. I didn’t follow her.” His words were quick now, but McNamara patiently listened to each one: “So just because some dipshit saw me and her at the same place means that what, I’m suddenly guilty? We just went to the same store, that’s all. How about you hop off my cock, McNamara? None of this means I did anything wrong.”</p><p>Once he was certain the dropout was done, the cop went on: “I’m going to make this very simple for you, Morrison.” He smiles at the teenager, who’s panting and who looks like he’s about to take off any second now. There weren’t many places in Ormond someone could run from a detective. “You’re going to come with me, down to the station. You’re going to confess the crimes you’ve done, you’re going to tell us how you did it, and in exchange… Your friends walk away.”</p><p>He didn’t think Morrison’s eyes could go larger.</p><p>“No warrants will be necessary. They’re all respectable members of society, I’d say. I’ve seen their records, they’re all good kids who just happened to get mixed in with a rotten apple. The other cops aren’t as smart as I am, Morrison. They’ll believe any story you want to make up about The Frosted Man, about how you acted alone. You can protect them.”</p><p>“I… I...” Frank stammers.</p><p>“If you care for them in the slightest, you’ll do this for them.”</p><p>Was it his imagination or were the dropout’s eyes gleaming under the moonlight? Tears? Maybe it was possible for Morrison to feel something after all. McNamara rests his hand on his holster. He watches as the boy battles with himself inwardly, but it seemed like he knew when he was beaten. The dropout hung his head and began to walk towards him. Softly, he says, “This is the right choice, Morri—”</p><p>He doesn’t get a chance to finish that statement as he barely moves his arms towards his face, gnashing his teeth together as the blade digs into his skin. The dropout is staring at him, wild-eyed and <i>afraid,</i> and he strikes again but this time McNamara is ready for him. He shoves the teenager’s chest, causing him to stumble backwards with relative ease. </p><p><i>“I’m going to fucking kill you!”</i> roared Morrison, who barrels back towards him. The knife moves at a frenzied pace that the cop almost can’t match, taking a few slashes in his attempt to disarm him. They were deep, but nothing life-threatening. He grabs the teenager’s wrist, squeezes it until the dropout cries out in pain, and releases the knife. It falls to the snow and McNamara shoves it a few feet away with a strong kick. In retaliation, Morrison kicks him hard in the thigh. </p><p>McNamara grunts, but doesn’t let go of his hold. <i>“Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”</i> Morrison was screaming in a chant, struggling to free himself from his grasp. With his free hand, he claws at McNamara’s face, and when the cop instinctively squeezes his eyes shut he takes this opportunity to knock their heads together as roughly as he can. McNamara gasps from the sudden collision, letting the dropout go.</p><p>Frank scrambles to grab his knife and turns it on the fucking cop. He doesn’t move an inch, however, when he sees that the cop has drawn his pistol. “I tried to make this easy on you, Morrison,” he snarls, “You should have taken the deal.” Frank is still panting, shaking, and he can’t help but stare at the beads of sweat rolling down the officer’s forehead.</p><p>He’s about to step forward, attack again, when the cop clicks off the safety. Frank raises his hands slowly as McNamara’s own hands tighten around the grip.</p><p>“Let’s try this again. You’re going to come to the station and I’m going to grab a warrant for the rest of your brat pack.”</p><p>Frank’s shoulders sag. What could he do? This was it. Game over. One wrong move and he’ll end up dead in the snow. His heart lurches at the thought of his friends being taken away in cop cars, behind bars, rotting away for the rest of their lives. He fucked this up. He fucked this up <i>so</i> badly. “Okay,” he replies, dejectedly.</p><p>“Good.” McNamara straightens up. “Now—”</p><p>Hands come from behind the cop, one is a balled-up fist that slams down on the top of the gun. The force of it causes McNamara to lower his hands, while the other hand is curled around a ballpoint pen. The pen is rammed into where the chin and neck meet. McNamara gasps as the pen is then immediately pulled out, blood freely spraying the ground in front of him and the dropout. The cop’s hands drop the gun immediately, flying to cover the wound. Frank finds himself frozen then, staring at the scene in sheer horror like he’s a deer in fucking headlights.</p><p>The attacker steps to the side of McNamara.</p><p>Florida is sporting a bright smile as he caps the chewed up pen and places it in his coat pocket. His voice was as high-pitched and obnoxious as ever. “Ah, whoops. I didn’t mean for that scene to go on for so long. But I couldn’t help myself? It was just so climactic.” With complete ease, he removes the cop’s walkie-talkie and puts it inside a messenger bag that hung over his shoulder.</p><p>Frank can’t find words, his arms falling to his sides. His eyes keep switching between the cop, who is trying desperately to keep the blood in his body, and the reporter. Which seems fine with Florida, who crouches down to pick up the gun. He inspects it for a moment before he puts back on the safety and places it in his bag. “Jeez,” Florida says, finally, as he rises. “You’re a terrible stalker.”</p><p>Frank thinks he begins to say “what”, but nothing comes out. Florida laughs at that. </p><p>“I told you not to do it, but there you went. You’re so stubborn.” He says it so fondly that it startles the dropout. No fucking way. <i>There was no fucking way.</i> “So I had to go and clean up your mess.” He sighs and adjusts his glasses, gaze fixated on the cop. “Bought the security footage of that day, bought the clerk's exclusive rights to his story. What a hassle.”</p><p>McNamara is staring at Florida with the same amount of shock Frank feels. Florida smiles gently at the cop, before he savagely kicks him down, causing him to fall onto his knees. McNamara tries to groan in pain, but it was obvious he couldn’t. Every noise he made came out as a mangled wheeze. “Good, good. Keep compressing the wound,” Florida murmurs to him.</p><p>His tone becomes jovial again as he turns to Frank. “It was so funny! I told him we should check the rental store and you know what he said?” When Frank doesn’t answer, he continues, “He was so surprised that s-silly old me actually, um, found clues!” His voice becomes gruff then, a perfect mimic of Officer McNamara’s: <i>“That’s why I keep you around, Olsen!”</i> He presses his boot deeper into the officer’s back, crushing him into the snow.</p><p>“What the fuck?” Frank finally remarks, intelligently.</p><p>Florida perks up, his voice back to normal. “Do you like that? I can do all sorts of impressions, really. Who do you want to hear?”</p><p>“You?” Frank’s mind is scrambling to put the flurry of words he was thinking into a coherent statement. <i>“You’re Ghostface?”</i></p><p>“Ding, ding, ding!” He straightens up to his full height, removing his glasses and tucking them into the pocket where the pen was held. The dopey smile is replaced with a confident smirk. This was insane, this was fucking crazy. Because the second he does those few things, it’s like there’s a completely different person in that oversized tan coat. The coat itself becomes fashionable rather than just a joke. Frank has never been so fascinated in his life. </p><p><s>Florida</s> Ghostface steps away from the cop, completely unfazed by the other man’s writhing.  His voice drops to a familiar rasp, one that causes Frank’s heart to skip a beat. “Jed Olsen is just another mask of mine. And when you were avoiding Ghostface, I knew I could easily continue our game as F-Florida. But don’t feel <i>too</i> stupid,” he purrs, “You’re not suppose to catch what you’re not suppose to notice.”</p><p>Ghostface never left after all. His heart is thumping a million miles a minute and that pain in his chest has subsided. Frank has to hold back the laugh that threatens to escape his lips. Of course. It made so much fucking sense now. The Roseville Gazette that would show up, the fucking fact that dear ol’ Ghostie knew that he had spoken to a reporter or that he was going up to the lodge in <i>the first place.</i></p><p>“Then who the fuck are you?” He demands brazenly, clenching his knife harder. “If you give me another fake name, I’ll gut you.”</p><p>Ghostface laughs at that. He runs a bloody hand through his dark hair, bringing forward the locks that Florida kept so neatly styled. Some of the strands fall in front of his face, but the rest loosely settle a little past his chin. When he speaks next, his voice has once again changed. It is monotone and flat, and Frank realizes with a shiver he’s heard both masks use this voice before. “Danny, Danny Johnson.”</p><p>Frank stares deep into those dark eyes. They were so captivating that he found himself stepping towards the man. Without the glasses and the black holes of the plastic mask, he can see specks of grey in them. Under the moonlight, his eyes glint with interest and hunger. Frank can’t help but wonder if anyone else has ever seen this expression on the man’s face. He hates that thought, and decides that he wants that look in his eyes to be for him, only for him. </p><p>“Nice to meet ya, Danny,” Frank murmurs when they were only a few inches apart.</p><p>“Pleasure’s all mine,” Danny whispers back.</p><p>The dropout leans forward, tentatively holding onto the lapels of the coat, and the other killer bends his head down so Frank can press their lips together.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">And with this, we've finished with what I've been calling Act One. :-)</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">The confrontation and reveal has been living in my head rent-free since chapter five, so I'm super stoked to finally be able to share it with you. Hopefully you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I'll definitely miss writing McNamara, especially his scenes with Florida, but I am so happy to introduce you to Danny.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">Thank you as always to my beta readers Megidola and Bwoo for all your advice and support!! I am eternally grateful to you both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">NOTE: I'm going to be taking a week long hiatus, so the next chapter will be posted 11.09.20. I can't wait to see you all for Act Two! ♡</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Who's Danny, Anyway?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So,” Frank begins conversationally, watching as Danny crouched in front of the now-deceased McNamara with a roll of gauze he produced from his bag, “In your line of work, you research a lot of things, huh?”</p><p>“Well,” Danny replies, critically eying the length he’s unraveled, “You can’t say I didn’t <i>try</i> to give you hints. Not my fault you’re so dense.” He broke off the piece with his teeth. </p><p>“I am <i>not</i> dense,” Frank retorts, hotly.</p><p>“Sure,” Danny agrees, “You just hung around an American serial killer while only knowing one other American in town.”</p><p>Frank lingers there for a moment, because <i>well yeah.</i> In hindsight, that’s kind of a good point. He hunches over the serial killer with a belated scoff. “If anyone could make that connection, you’d already be someone’s prison bitch.”</p><p>“True.” Danny turns the fresh corpse over with a gentle nudge. Frank shivers with a sick delight at the lack of <i>anything</i> in the cop’s pale blue eyes.  They were still wide-open, but the fright had died along with him. “The connection part, I mean. If I was in prison, I’d probably be on death row. Can’t fuck anyone there.”</p><p>Frank furrows his brows at how easily the words leave the other man’s mouth— like that fact didn’t bother him at all. It’s then that he really takes in the other killer: his eyes are sharp and focused on McNamara, but his whole posture was relaxed, far from the statuesque way of sitting Ghostface did. It occurs to him, not for the first time, that he knows essentially nothing about him. Which parts of him were the reporter, the murderer, or the real person? Was Danny even a real person? For all Frank knew, this was just one of dozens of aliases.</p><p>“Huh?” Frank returns to reality when he realizes Danny had been talking to him. The man chuckles, giving a slight shake of his head. </p><p>“I was asking you to move his hands.” Danny’s voice is steady and patient, and Frank <i>knows</i> deep down that he’s being genuine, but there’s this itch in the back of his mind telling him that this was all just another act.</p><p>Well, the kiss certainly didn’t feel fake.</p><p>His face momentarily heats up at the memory, despite the chilly nature of the night air. He had really done that. He had really kissed Ghostie. And if the man asked, he’d probably do it again. Jesus, that makes him sound so hopeless. He should be embarrassed or some shit, but just the thought of those rough lips against his forms a bubble in his chest and now he really <i>is</i> hoping the man will ask.</p><p>It’s then that Danny looks at him, his eyes half-lidded and bored. Clearly, he had grown tired of Frank’s inability to move, but his voice never changes tone. “Don’t worry about getting your DNA on him. We’re going to clean his hands anyway. They’re a mess.”</p><p>“Uhm, right.”</p><p>It was probably not a good idea to keep him waiting any further, so he shakes away any thoughts that were still prodding him and squats down next to Danny. He lifts up McNamara’s wrists with a great deal of caution, not really keen on having any blood spray up at his face. They were disgustingly lukewarm and the palms were stained red. The moment his hands were far away enough from his neck, Danny pressed the gauze to the open wound, stopping whatever blood was already trying to spill after being freed. </p><p>“Remind me why we’re patching up a dead guy?”</p><p>“Isn’t it obvious?” Danny asks, in a manner that made it clear that he wasn’t really looking for an answer. He wraps the gauze around the cop’s neck several times until he was certain the red liquid would remain inside. “We’re making this a Ghostface crime.”</p><p>Frank nibbles his lower lip as he runs through his mental calendar. “Wait a fucking second. Is that why you didn’t follow your two-week rule? Were you <i>planning this?”</i></p><p>Danny gives one of his signature hums and rises. “Maybe.” He extends his hand and Frank takes it, pulling himself up. They’re close enough that Frank can inhale that shitty cologne of his, but right now it’s intoxicating. “Don’t tell me you thought George here actually came up with the idea. That sort of stings.”</p><p>“So what? You got him to make you call me?” Frank jerks his head towards the cop, never taking his eyes off those greys. “How does <i>that</i> work?”</p><p>“Don’t be silly,” Danny says, with a ghost of a smile. “The killer never reveals their tricks until the third act.” </p><p>Frank’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, surveying him for any type of tell-tale sign he was joking. There’s none. “Sounds like some Bond villain shit.”</p><p>“I don’t think we’re in the right genre for that,” Danny’s voice is barely above a whisper, spoken so solemnly that it makes Frank laugh. The man’s smile widens at his reaction, and there’s a fondness to it that catches the dropout slightly off-guard.</p><p>“You know,” Danny continues normally, “We probably wouldn’t be in this situation if you just killed him when I gave you his address.” He gives an exaggerated sigh, becoming more like the familiar ghost. “I was so excited to see his death on the news and… Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero.” He gestures along with each word lazily. “Broke my heart when he called me later that day.”</p><p>“I couldn’t,” Frank explains with a shrug. “There were children present.”</p><p>“So?” Danny raises an eyebrow. “What? You were afraid of a five-year-old?”</p><p>“I feel like you’re missing the point.”</p><p>“One of us certainly is,” Danny replies, earning a puzzled look from Frank. The dark-haired man regards the dead body for a long moment, before returning his gaze to Frank’s. “By the way, how well do you know this mountain?”</p><p>“Better than any of the shitheads here,” Frank boasts. </p><p>Danny tilts his head ever so slightly. “Even when it’s pitch black?”</p><p>Frank nods.</p><p>“Good.” Danny praises and Frank can feel his heart pulse under his skin. The man steps away from the body and begins to walk back towards the lodge. Frank lingers there, unsure of exactly what to do. When he notices the other hasn’t followed him, Danny tilts his head back. </p><p>“Well?” He calls to him. “You wanna spend all night here?”</p><p>Deciding that he definitely doesn’t want to do that, Frank trails after him. His eyes stay on the footprints indented in the snow, and he makes sure to step inside of them. Danny seems to be a size or two larger than him, but each step Frank takes destroys any chance of knowing what kind of shoe was worn. He glances upwards when there are no more prints and finds they’re by the black car. </p><p>It must have been McNamara’s.</p><p>He peers into the rolled-up window of the driver’s seat, spies a photo of his little girl tucked in the dashboard. “Did anyone see you come with him?” Frank asks.</p><p>“No,” Danny answers. His index finger twirls the car keys. “This might surprise you, but McNamara wasn’t exactly a social butterfly. Kind of an egomaniac, that one. Thought he was better than the rest of his force, kept all his little plans to himself…” He trails off then, throwing the keys at Frank, who catches them with ease. </p><p>He studies them briefly. “What am I supposed to—”</p><p>Danny doesn’t even let him finish that statement before he has his hand on the dropout’s chest and he’s pushing him against the car door. Frank shivers, flustered, from the cold of the door meeting the warmth of his back. Danny leans into him, their legs entangling with one another. “Come on, baby. Use your brain. I can’t be the one doing all the thinking, can I?”</p><p>There’s a teasing nature in his words, but his eyes are sharp and Frank isn’t a moron. He knows the other killer isn’t kidding and it causes Frank to swallow audibly. He can feel Danny’s eyes fixated on his neck, watching as his Adam’s apple bops up and down.</p><p>“I could… drive the car into the woods,” Frank says, lowly, as if afraid that someone was going to be listening from nearby. Danny doesn’t respond, just flickers his eyes upwards, and it takes everything to keep his unease hidden. “I’ll make sure nobody can find it.”</p><p>“Really?” Danny whispers in a familiar purr into his ear. “How so?”</p><p>“I’ll… uh…” Frank momentarily forgets how to speak as the other man presses deeper into him, and the bulge growing in his jeans isn’t lost on either of them. “Drive it d-deep, erm,” He clears his throat, attempting to regain control of the situation. “Where no one ever goes.”</p><p>A moment passes. A very, long moment. Finally, the other killer simply says: “That sounds like a good idea.” Danny pulls away from him and Frank kicks himself for missing his warmth. “And you can make your way back, right?”</p><p>“Uh, y-yeah.” Frank straightens up, moving away from the door. He forces himself to cool off by thinking about a naked Mrs. Sullivan. “Duh.” </p><p>“Good, good. I’d hate for my partner to be lost out there,” Danny quietly continues, “Eaten alive by the wolves…”</p><p>“Fuck off. There’s no wolves,” Frank snorts, hoping that the other killer doesn’t hear the way that his heart pounds against his ribcage.</p><p>“Is that right?” Danny smiles, that fond one from before. “The more you know.”</p><p>It seemed like Ghostie’s terrible jokes were just a part of Danny’s personality. Frank supposes he can suck it up (besides, he won’t ever say it out loud, but he’s kind of glad— it had been one of the things he had missed these past few weeks). He shoves the key into the car door, swinging it open.</p><p>“What are you going to do?”</p><p>“Clean-up duty,” Danny tells him, with no emotion in his voice. “Killing a waitress is one thing, but a cop? Not really the easiest thing to get away with, Frankie boy.” He digs into his bag then, pulls out a cloth and hands it to him. “Here. Make sure to wipe down the car before you come back.”</p><p>“If I get arrested,” Frank jokes as he fiddles with the cloth, trying to soothe his growing nerves as the gravity of the other’s words sink into him, “Then you’ll break me out, right?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>That answer was a little too quick for Frank’s ego. “Ouch.”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Danny presses a kiss against the dropout’s temple. “We’re not getting caught.” Just the simple touch causes Frank’s brain to fizzle out, and <i>huh?</i> Why was he so nervous before? The serial killer steps back. “Hurry up, alright? We still have a lot to do.”</p><p>“Sure,” Frank swears there’s suddenly more stars out in the sky than there were earlier. </p><p>He slides into McNamara’s car with ease, and although he could have easily hotwired it, he was grateful to have the keys. It rumbles to life, much faster than his shit car. He honestly finds himself wishing he could just keep this one. The police radio flickers on, though nothing comes through as he drives.</p><p>
  <i>Figures. </i>
</p><p>He wonders what the radio would sound like when they stumbled upon Ghostface’s latest kill. The thought causes the corners of his mouth to perk upwards. As promised, he drives the car deep through the pine trees. It’s not unfamiliar territory in the slightest. How many times had the Legion gone through here, daring each other to push themselves further and further into the mountains? He could probably make his way through these woods drunk and high.</p><p>Frank drives past where The Frosted Man was buried, before eventually stalling the car in a weird-looking grove. The trees here were all bunched up too closely together as if they were huddled and scared. The roots of a few of them were sticking out of the ground. The bushes here were tall and unkept, and Susie swore once she saw eyes peeking out of them. It was perfect.</p><p>He stays in the car for a second, before he grins and alright, look— it’s petty, but he can’t help himself. He snatches the photo of McNamara’s daughter and tears it up and throws the little pieces like confetti out the window. They fall slowly, like snowflakes, and he watches as the wind howls and carries them away to places unknown. Sayonara.</p><p>Fuck that stupid cop. He got everything he deserved. </p><p>Frank pulls the keys out the ignition and he debates taking the police radio for a second, but decides he doesn’t <i>really</i> want to be caught with such an important item. Instead, he exits the car and after a wipe-down, hurls the keys as far, far away as he can throw them. They soar past the bushes and Frank laughs, giddiness bubbling up within him.</p><p>“See, McNamara? It’s like you said!” Frank hollers into nothingness, throwing his arms up in the air in a showy gesture. “I’m a beneficial member of society, bitch!”</p><p>He flips the car off as he walks away, just for good measure.</p><p>The trek back to the lodge is a lengthy one, even with Frank briskly walking back. God, he wished he had his walkman on him. He was left with his thoughts, and it’d been fine when he had Danny to talk up the silence, but now he could do nothing more then allow the thoughts that’d been reeling in his head from this whole encounter to come at him full-force.</p><p>There was just one question that kept repeating in his mind over and over: <i>‘Did Danny really do all this shit to fuck with me?’</i></p><p>This dramatic reveal, pretending like he came in to save the day, all that shit was just… orchestrated by the other killer. Should he be flattered? Pissed? He could have been shot. So honestly, he should have just told the killer to fuck off. ...It was a little too late for that. He couldn’t exactly… send him away now. Not that he would <i>want</i> to send him away after he’s finally got him back after all this time. Though… Danny purposefully stayed away. Did he know that Frank would miss him? Nah. There’s no way. No one is <i>that</i> smart.</p><p>...</p><p>That’s pretty fucking crazy if that’s the case.</p><p>Look. Frank wasn’t going to deny that he was fucking awesome. A total package. But why did Danny decide to spend all this time setting up these little games on <i>him?</i> Was it just because he killed Fink? Was it just because he didn’t want to admit he liked to kill? If he asked the older killer, would he actually get an answer? Frank doubts it. It didn’t seem like he was too keen on sharing all his secrets to the dropout, which led to his next question.</p><p>What the fuck <i>were</i> they?</p><p>They kissed, Frank supposes, twice now. It had become pretty clear that Danny had a non-platonic interest in him, and Frank… Frank uh… The feeling was mutual. <i>Boyfriends?</i> That word doesn’t sit right with him and when he tries to say it out loud, it stays on his tongue and refuses to leave. </p><p>Fuck, why was all this shit so confus—</p><p>Frank falls on his face.</p><p>“What the fuck?!” He yells indignantly, as he picks himself up. No serious scrapes, luckily, and he brushes off the snow resting on the bridge of his nose. He glares down at the culprit. A large branch. Too lost in his thoughts, Frank had tripped over it. Actually, the more he focused on the ground, there were quite a few of them. It seems like they’d fallen off the trees above a while ago, and had been buried by the snow. </p><p>He grips his hand around the branch, pulling it out and shaking off the snow. As he’s inspecting it, an idea flashes the rest of his thoughts away. God. He was so fucking brilliant sometimes, it <i>scared</i> him. With almost a bit too much enthusiasm, he digs around and pulls out another one of the branches. The rest of the walk, he drags them behind him, clearing his footsteps away.</p><p>Frank also makes sure to keep an eye out for any other occupational hazards that may be lying about.</p><p>When he returns, roughly forty-five minutes later, Danny seems pleased to see him. “Figured you drove off.”</p><p>“Tempting,” Frank jokes. Danny’s face becomes flat and unsmiling then. “Uh, kidding. But they won’t be able to find it. More importantly…” He pulls the branches from behind him and waggles them in front of the serial killer. “Check it out!”</p><p>For once, Danny actually looks confused. “What… what are those?”</p><p>“Branches?” Frank returns, like Danny’s fucking stupid.</p><p>“Right, clearly.” Danny seems annoyed at his tone and has the audacity to sound like he thinks Frank’s fucking stupid. “But why?”</p><p>Frank pauses. He would have thought the reason would have been <i>obvious</i> to the killer. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as he made himself out to be. “You know, the movie with the dogs?”</p><p>Danny stares at him.</p><p>Frank can’t believe he has to continue: “Okay, there’s. A shit ton of dogs. And they’re running away from this lady and it’s snowing, so the dad dog grabs a stick and cleans their tracks—”</p><p>“Are you,” Danny interrupts, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing, “Are you talking about <i>One Hundred and One Dalmatians?”</i></p><p>“Oh, yeah! That one!” Frank declares, shaking the branch in his right hand. “Yeah, saw it once when I was a little kid. I figure we could tie these to the back of my car and clean up the tire  tracks as we drive down the mountain.”</p><p>“I…” Danny blinks. “Well, I can’t decide if I’m impressed or what.”</p><p>“Be impressed, asshole.”</p><p>“Alright, alright.” Danny holds out his palms flat. “Color me impressed.”</p><p>“Thank you, thank you.” Frank mockingly bows, placing the branches on the ground. “There’s loose rope in the lodge.”</p><p>The two make their way towards the abandoned resort, but when they pass where McNamara’s body was <i>supposed</i> to be, Frank stops dead in his tracks. There was no blood to be found, either, just an empty patch of dirt. “Where the fuck is the cop?”</p><p>“While you were playing with sticks,” Danny says, casually, pausing in his own walk, “I was cleaning up. Cleared away the bloody snow, moved the corpse.”</p><p>Frank refuses to feel ashamed of his branch idea. “Moved the corpse where, exactly?”</p><p>“Your trunk.”</p><p>
  <i>“My what?”</i>
</p><p>Danny gives him a teasing smile then, reaching into his coat pocket and twirling Frank’s keys with his finger. “You didn’t even notice, did you?”</p><p>Frank pats down his pockets with a sudden spike of alarm. Relief courses through his veins as he feels his knife, glad he wasn’t left without anything to defend himself. Suddenly, however, the whole being-pushed-against-the-car thing made perfect sense. <i>“Motherfucker,”</i> he grumbles.</p><p>“It’s impolite to mumble, baby.”</p><p>That shuts him up then, and he’s looking anywhere but at Danny. “Are you gonna keep calling me that?”</p><p>“What? Baby?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>Danny hums, thoughtful. “What do you prefer? Sweetheart? Darling? Love?”</p><p>“Ugh, Christ.” Disgust coats his throat at the sheer thought of being called any of <i>that.</i> “None of the above. I just…” Frank can’t say it. He can’t <i>ask.</i> What was he? One of his exes, who would cling to him and ask him to label their relationship even when it was nothing more than a fling?</p><p>“It’s weird,” he tactfully continues, “when we’re not together-together.”</p><p>“Huh. That’s news to me.” A lazy smirk appears on Danny’s face. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? We’re partners.”</p><p>
  <i>Partners.</i>
</p><p>Of course. Danny says it with such certainty that damn if Frank doesn’t realize he’s been overthinking this whole situation. He always had a talent for that— being able to lure the dropout in with just his words. Frank sucks in his breath. Partners-in-crime. Ghostface and Partner. It suited them to be partners in this new way as well. He waits for himself to be grossed out by this revelation, but he isn’t.</p><p>When the dropout doesn’t say anything, Danny just laughs, not maliciously, and continues towards the lodge. Frank stays there just a bit longer, his whole body warmed despite the cold. </p><p>The rope is easily secured, dangling off a dusty shelf in the lobby. They return to Frank’s car, which was still waiting patiently by where he’d parked it. It occurs to Frank then that Danny himself easily could have driven off, could have put on his Florida act and called the cops, could have had Frank take the fall for him. He was going to need to be a lot more careful around the older killer, that much was for sure. </p><p>After they secure the branches on the rear bumper, Frank is able to snatch back the keys from Danny, with a quick proclamation of: “My car, <i>I’m</i> driving.”</p><p>“Alright, alright.” Danny slips into the front passenger seat after Frank starts up the car. It whines at being brought back to life, clearly having enjoyed its rest. The mixtape he was listening to picks up from where it was left off, blasting Iron Maiden. </p><p>Danny leans over and lowers the volume so they can hear one another. Frank almost protests this. “Do you even know where we’re headed?”</p><p>Frank clicks his tongue as he begins driving down the mountain. The branches serve their purpose, clattering behind them as they sweep away any sign that they were there. “Nope, where?”</p><p>“Super Seven.”</p><p>Frank nearly crashes his car at the mention of the motel, which only causes the other man to snicker. “Uh… Why?” He recovers, smoothly, keeping his attention on the dark road as an excuse not to look at Danny. He wasn’t <i>seriously</i> thinking about…</p><p>“It’s the only motel in town,” Danny says, putting an emphasis on each word.</p><p>The dropout desperately did his best to ignore the thoughts that bombarded his head, all of them very much something one would see in an R-rated film. His hands clench against the steering wheel, and he’s very aware of Danny’s eyes on him. “I, uh, I don’t think we have time for that right now?”</p><p>“Hmm? Time for what?” Danny asks, innocently. That was <i>definitely</i> Ghostface seeping through. Frank glares at him from the corner of his eye and he chuckles, returning to the monotone. “Relax, baby. I’m from out of town, aren’t I?”</p><p>Frank lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Oh.”</p><p>“Besides,” Danny continues in a low whisper, “when we fuck, I really want to savor it.”</p><p>
  <i>“Oh.”</i>
</p><p>The two continue to ride in silence. Frank can’t help but steal a few glances over at the other killer, can’t help but just watch him for a bit. He was looking out the passenger window, and Frank desperately found himself wanting to know what he was looking at. He watches the way the other breathes, how his chest falls and rises steadily. Danny’s calm puts Frank back at ease, and he forgets about everything for a minute. There’s no one in their trunk, there’s no threat of arrest looming over them. It is just the two of them, free from societal expectations.</p><p>There was no one else quite like them. </p><p>Maybe there'll never be anyone like them.</p><p>And that, Frank decides as he parks at the base of the mountain, is why Danny chose him. He gets out, unties the branches, and carefully drags them behind some bushes. Here, the snow wasn’t as deep, and so the tire tracks could easily be missed. He asks the other killer to pop open the trunk and he throws the ropes without much care onto McNamara’s body. The ropes smack into his crane-like face and Frank laughs at the sight before he closes it once more and returns to the car.</p><p>Frank had only been to the motel a few times, mostly to romp around with Julie when they’d just come back from a date out of town and not able to wait long enough to make it home. It’s surprisingly not as dingy as one would expect from a motel that probably didn’t see anything more than horny teenagers and adulterers. </p><p>It’s rather plain, like a few white houses were stuck together to make the building. The roofs are a firetruck red, ugly in color, but probably would draw eyes that were stuck in a blizzard. Unlike motels he’s seen in movies, this one was only a single floor and there’s no pool or any kind of amenities. Though, he doubts Danny would use them even if they were a thing.</p><p>The only noticeable thing was a big, red number seven on the corner of the lot. As the two of them pass it, Frank’s eyes fall to the bottom of it. It was still there, the FM + JK he carved into it. He wonders if Danny had seen it, but the man makes no mention of it. It wasn’t exactly the most blatant piece of tagging he’s ever done, so it wouldn’t be too much of a surprise if he hadn’t.</p><p>Danny’s room is the very last room on the left, far from the office an unwitting employee must be at. Besides Frank’s car, there’s only two others. A sudden shiver runs up his spine at the idea of some idiot popping out of their rooms to see him, still splattered in McNamara’s blood. They could have two victims tonight. There’s a tiny flicker of disappointment when Danny opens the door for him and no one’s seen them.</p><p>“After you,” Danny murmurs into his ear. </p><p>Frank obliges. He’s not sure what to expect when the lights come on— but it’s nothing like reality. Danny closes the door behind him and the blond takes in every last inch of the room. … It’s a motel room. There’s absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about it. No newspaper clippings or masks lying about. No suspicious-looking duffle bags. No tied-up victims. Just two beds, a television, a desk with some papers neatly placed about, and a random painting of a lady looking out towards the ocean. It hardly looked lived-in at all.</p><p>“Are we in the right room?” Frank can’t help but ask.</p><p>Danny laughs. “You know what they say, a clean home is a happy home.”</p><p>The serial killer encircles Frank then, inspecting him. “Okay, you’re not <i>too</i> terrible… You can’t see anything on your pants... It looked a lot worse in the moonlight.” Danny steps in front of him, gently scraping away some of the dried blood off his cheek with his thumb. Frank has to use all his willpower to not lean into Danny’s touch. “You didn’t bring your mask, did you?”</p><p>Frank shakes his head, wordlessly.</p><p>“Mm,” Danny steps back, debating with himself. “Alright, that’s not a big deal. But from now on, keep it on hand.” He glances over at the digital clock by the bedside dresser. “We only have about an hour, so go shower. I think I have clothes that’ll fit you.”</p><p><i>An hour till what?</i> Frank doesn’t voice the question, nor does he protest the shower. Despite how wonderful the murder had felt, he wasn’t exactly content to have McNamara’s stale blood linger on him any further. Although his nerves shake, he’s very much certain Danny won’t try anything weird. The serial killer seems too deep in thought, too focused on the time limit he’s set for them rather than anything else.</p><p>He enters the bathroom, closes and locks the door behind him. The walls are a pale beige, and there’s some chipped paint above the toilet. He’s quick to take off his clothes, catching himself in the mirror. The bags under his eyes are still prevalent, but his eyes are burning and there’s something different about the way he carries himself. He can’t linger on it too long, quickly turning on the shower. He’s grateful, suddenly, that he’s been here a few times. Trying to learn a new bathroom system was the worst.</p><p>He doesn’t give himself the chance for the shower to heat up. These old pipes were always shitty and would take much too long. The last thing he needed was Danny pounding on his door, asking him to hurry the fuck up. He scrubs himself clean, watching with fascination as the red-stained water runs down the drain.</p><p>Frank steps out, throws a towel around his waist, and hesitates a moment before he exits the room. He’s expecting the bright flash of Danny’s camera, but there’s nothing. Actually. There’s no one. Just his clothes, laid out on the bed, and the tan coat over the desk chair. He glances around suspiciously, peeking his head into the kitchen. No way he’d just up and leave, right? Not wanting to be caught in his towel, Frank slips into the clothing. The only change was the black shirt, with the logo of the Rolling Stones on it. </p><p>Seems Danny had some taste.</p><p>The shirt fits him big, but it doesn’t swallow him whole. He’s completely dressed by the time the lock on the front door clicks and the door swings open. “Ah! There you are!”</p><p>Frank frowns. Once again, Danny has slipped into the high-voiced persona of Florida. The hair has been slicked back, glasses hiding those greys. As the other man hasn’t begun hunching over for the full-Florida effect, he looks like some bizarro mix of the two personalities. Danny swapped out the coat for an oversized, brown sweater over a white-collared shirt, along with tan slacks. He looks like some knock-off Mr. Rogers. Frank is at a loss at how he managed to clean himself up.</p><p>“What are you wearing?” Frank asks, flatly.</p><p>“Oh,” Danny glances down at himself. He’s back to that monotone. “You don’t like it? Here I thought I was the pinnacle of fashion…”</p><p>Frank nods his head towards the glasses. “Those prescription?”</p><p>“Fake.” He leans against the doorway. “But it <i>really</i> pulls together the ‘Clark Kent’ thing I have going on.”</p><p>“That would imply that you’re Superman,” Frank scoffs.</p><p>Danny sneers, which looks completely off under the black frames. “And you’re my Lois Lane, baby.”</p><p>Frank makes a face and Danny chuckles. “Come on, I already started up the car.” As Frank breezes past him, he goes on: “Make sure to call me ‘Jed’, alright?”</p><p>“Alright, Danny.”</p><p>An adoring sigh comes from behind him. “You’re such a little shit.”</p><p>When they reenter the car, Danny (or Florida, or Jed, or whoever) instructs him to go to the diner. It was the last place left open tonight, he explains above the sounds of drums that came from the dashboard, and we need the alibi. It’s always good to have an alibi. He says it like it’s some brand new information that Frank would have <i>never</i> thought about.</p><p>The drive to the diner isn’t too long, maybe twenty or so minutes, give or take. They aren’t the last ones to come in, much to the disgruntlement of the workers who were dying to close the doors and go home. The atmosphere of the place was a lot bleaker, in Frank’s opinion. The jukebox was crooning out this sad song about the end of the world. Like Julie had told him, there was this large picture of the diner girl hanging on the wall. Right underneath it was a notice about a pancake special. Danny, with his incredible sense of humor, orders this alongside a cup of coffee. Frank takes his usual burger and fries.</p><p>“Thanks for, erm, meeting with me so late,” Jed tells him, gratefully, as the waitress returns with their drinks. “I k-know it was such a short notice…”</p><p>Frank shrugs. He doesn’t care about the reporter. “It was whatever.”</p><p>Jed smiles kindly and the waitress shoots him a sympathetic glance. It was clear to her that the reporter hadn’t noticed the boredom in the dropout’s tone. “We s-should get started, I think. Um… Oh…” He begins to dig into his bag, the same one from earlier. “Where did I put…”</p><p>The dropout rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his water. The waitress, clearly slighted by this, tucks her tray under her arm and walks off. Frank decides it may be best not to touch his food, less the waitress was going to spit in it. Eventually, Jed emerges with a notepad and pen. “Shall we c-continue?”</p><p>Turns out Jed wanted to interview him about the latest Ghostface encounter, asking if he’s gotten any more calls from the killer. Frank shakes his head, plays along with the story the reporter was weaving. He hasn’t gotten any calls, but damn doesn’t it feel less safe around here? Jed agrees with that sentiment, turning his head towards the portrait of the diner girl and going off on some speech about how she was a respectable young lady.</p><p>It’s obvious to Frank that neither of them give a rat’s ass about what they’re saying, but it’s enough for the waitress. She swings by more than once, bringing them their food and constantly asking them if they need anything else. Frank’s not stupid. The waitress is less interested in overhearing the story and more interested in the journalist himself. Guess there were some people out there that liked those hopeless sad sacks. Jed doesn’t seem to notice this unwanted attention, but when Frank peers past the glasses, there’s an annoyance in the darkness of his eyes.</p><p>When the waitress comes by once more, Jed thanks her personally. “I-it’s really brave of you to keep w-working here,” he tells her, “I don’t, um… I don’t think I’d have the c-courage!”</p><p>“Well,” she giggles, a little too loudly. Frank debates gutting her right there and then. “It’s a living.”</p><p>Jed laughs and then he accidentally knocks the coffee all over the table. The three of them jump back. “Oh no!” Jed gasps, reaching for his notepad and saving it. The waitress, on the other hand, isn’t as lucky. The coffee splashes onto her uniform. “Oh, I’m so s-sorry!”</p><p>“Um,” the waitress’s smile has faded a little as she looks tiredly at the messy table. “That’s alright. Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up.”</p><p>“A-alright,” he mumbles, embarrassed. “I’m such a klutz…” He grimaces at Frank. “Maybe that’s our cue to get… get out of h-here?”</p><p>“Oh, don’t leave on my account!” The waitress tries to salvage the situation, “It’s not serious. Happens all the time.”</p><p>“You’re too kind,” Jed smiles weakly at her. “But it’s getting a-awfully late anyways.”</p><p>The waitress can’t hide her disappointment. “Well, then… I hope to see you again?”</p><p><i>‘And what am I?’</i> Frank thinks, still having been there the entire time. <i>‘Chopped liver?’</i></p><p>“I hope so too,” Jed still has that plastic smile, ignoring Frank’s mocking kissy lips he does behind the waitress’s back. The two of them depart after the reporter leaves a generous tip and apologizes again for all the trouble. When they’re back outside, Jed is quick to pull Frank into the dark alley, only lit by a dull lamp, next to the diner dumpster.</p><p>Frank makes a noise of protest as he’s pinned against the wall. Although there’s nobody around, his heartbeat accelerates. “Jed, people might—”</p><p>“You are so rude,” Danny hisses, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. “That poor lady is just making a living.”</p><p>“Uh, shit, sorry? I thought we were playing—”</p><p>He doesn’t finish that sentence before rough lips are crushed against his. Danny kisses him with hunger and Frank returns it eagerly; a clashing of teeth and tongue. Frank hates coffee, but god does he love the taste of it from Danny’s mouth. The serial killer is holding him tight, like a predator does their meal, ensuring there’s nowhere for him to run.</p><p>“It’s really fucking hard,” Danny mutters wantonly against his lips once they separate for air, “To keep my hands off you.” Another fierce kiss that takes the breath out of Frank before he moves away. As if nothing had ever happened, he says: “You <i>need</i> to learn some manners.”</p><p>“Probably,” Frank can barely muster more than a whisper, “But that isn’t really what you want, is it?”</p><p>Danny shoots him that fond smile, but there’s a dark tinge to it that he hadn’t noticed up on the mountain. If it wasn’t for the fact that McNamara was still eternally resting in his trunk, he was almost certain Danny would have taken him right there and then. Frank is almost certain he wouldn’t have minded that.</p><p>The next phase of their plan, Danny informs as they get back into the car, is the most important. But there isn’t much for Frank to do, considering he doesn’t have his mask. Instead, he’s designated as the getaway driver. Which is the most fucking boring role in existence. He drives them onto McNamara’s street, empty as usual, by the trees behind his home. They’re lucky; the light isn’t on in his house, meaning that McNamara’s wife must be asleep.</p><p>Of course, taking care of a toddler must be exhausting. As a single mom, it’s probably better she’d learn that lesson sooner rather than later.</p><p>Frank is fascinated by Danny’s next costume change, which isn’t much. He leans over the passenger seat, bringing a duffle bag from the backseats. Slips on black pants over his slacks (“Not what I usually do, but special circumstances.”), pulls on a black long-sleeve then the familiar black raincoat. The mask comes on last, and Ghostface is reborn.</p><p>“Boo,” Ghostface says in that scratchy manner of his, turning the mask to look at him.</p><p>Frank snorts and shoves him lightly. “Get the fuck outta here.”</p><p>The killer purposely takes his time stepping out, like there wasn’t a chance that someone could be looking out the window and catch them both. Frank flips him off and the killer gets to work. He doesn’t get to see much, unfortunately, from his seat. But he does watch the masked man drag out a large black bag from the trunk. Frank guesses that Danny bagged up the cop while he was showering. The killer disappears deep into the trees.</p><p>He comes back once more, for the rope that Frank lovingly left him.</p><p>His mixtape is playing at a low volume, but he’s barely listening to the lyrics. It plays again, a full loop before he sees a bright flash of light that he realizes can only be from Ghostface’s camera. The killer returns then, slips into the seat, and immediately takes off the mask— which has been coated in fresh blood, and throws it into his duffle bag.</p><p>He’s panting some, probably from moving around the fit cop. The mask messed up his well-groomed Florida hair, and it’s back to being tousled about. Frank definitely prefers it this way, likes how the locks of hair are stuck to his wet forehead. The serial killer never looked better.</p><p>“Drive,” Danny rasps out and Frank, of course, obeys.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <span class="noted">hi guys!! welcome to act 2!! :') wow this has been a crazy week hasn't it?? 2014 me would have died if she knew destiel became canon.</span>
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  <span class="noted">big thank you as always to my dear beta reader, megidola, who struggled alongside me to name this chapter. ❤</span>
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  <span class="noted">also!! check out this <a href="https://www.deviantart.com/energon-goodies/art/ghostfrank-ghostfrank-860373181">gorgeous fanart</a> of chapter twelve done by eel_bones !! i literally can't stop looking at it ;w;</span>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Portrait of a Liar</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>An unusual, yet near-silent sound of rustling causes a surge of panic to shoot through Frank’s brain, instantly awakening him from whatever slumber he’d finally begun to have. His eyes blink past the remnants of sleep and it takes everything in him not to jolt out of bed. <i>Where was he? </i></p><p>Certainly not his room. He didn’t recognize anything about this place— an odd door to the side of him and a large brown dresser pressed against the plain white wall. The sound occurs again and this time he rolls over, discovers he’s tangled up in a thin cream-colored blanket. </p><p>There’s a digital alarm clock on the bedside dresser and the brightness of the red numbers sear his vision: four forty-two in the morning. The cloud of fog in his head dissipates with the sudden realization of exactly where he was. </p><p>“Oh, morning.”</p><p>Danny’s voice is hushed, husky with his own tiredness. </p><p>That’s right. They had returned straight to the motel and he had stayed overnight. Danny had pointed out that it’d be playing with fire if Frank dropped him off then went back home, because there’d be way too many chances for him to be spotted with all his moving around. <i>Besides,</i> Danny had said with a shrug, <i>there was another bed.</i></p><p>He watches with interest, the early rays of dawn being his only source of light, as Danny throws a coat, which moves like a cape, over himself. He couldn’t see every detail, more like the other was a silhouette. It seemed, even now, he kept to the shadows.</p><p>Frank notes his bed is already made, or perhaps it had never been slept in at all. Danny turns his head towards him, probably finally noting the eyes on him. He moves from the desk to Frank’s bedside, so gracefully and so quietly that it’s like he’s gliding. Maybe Frank is still dreaming after all. When he steps closer, Frank sees he’s back to hiding his true identity behind black horned glasses. He wants to jump up, snatch them off his face, and break them in half. But there’s something about the way he stands over him that keeps him still under his covers.</p><p>The dark-haired man bends to a crouch, to look Frank dead in the eyes, though the younger man makes no attempt to move at this. Danny smiles, gentle and natural. Frank lets his eyelids droop, focuses on the small birthmark underneath the other’s lip. It just seemed so out of place on the otherwise blemish-free face of his. “I thought you were a heavy sleeper.”</p><p>“Normally am,” Frank lies in a mutter as if he’s desperately trying to cling to sleep. “But you’re stomping around everywhere.”</p><p>Danny titters, his eyes shifting to the side as if he just thought of something funny. “Then you should go back to sleep,” he whispers, “It’s still early, you know. Birds aren’t even chirping yet.”</p><p>Frank strains to listen for any noises from the outside world, but there’s none. It doesn’t feel right. He almost misses Clive’s loud snoring. “Where are you going?” he asks.</p><p>His breath hitches as slender fingers weave themselves into his bed head, stroking the locks with delicate care. “Just have to finish up some work,” Danny tells him softly, “Sadly. I could stay here forever, watching you.”</p><p>“Creep,” Frank says, with a tiny smile.</p><p>Danny returns it with a smirk before he rises once more and in a moment of insanity, Frank wants to snatch his wrist as he retracts his hand. “I’ll be back.” </p><p>Instead, Frank watches through half-lidded eyes as Danny adjusts the dark coat, one that swallows him whole, carefully closes the front door behind him, and locks it. His silhouette passes by the drawn curtains and then he’s gone. Frank processes what just happened, before flipping over onto his stomach. His face is still burning from the encounter and he buries his face into the pillow.</p><p><i>Christ.</i> If the Legion saw him now, they’d fucking roast him to oblivion.</p><p>
  <i>“Not more than a day after we reported that the town was safe from Ormond’s Ghost, were authorities alerted to a body hanging behind the woods of Simmons and Bell…”</i>
</p><p>Frank stirs awake once more at the familiar voice of the newscaster, unsure of when he even fell back asleep. He expects Danny to greet him, but he doesn’t. Once his limbs regain mobility, he sits up. This time the clock read two twelve— fuck, he definitely hadn’t meant to stay here this long. Across from him was the other serial killer, in the wooden desk chair. His left leg was outstretched as the chair rocked back on its heel.</p><p>Danny seems like he never even noticed that Frank was still in the room, absentmindedly chewing on the back end of a black pen. His attention was solely on the newscaster, in her usual power suit and helmet hair, and her stony expression. </p><p>
  <i>“Our station and various others were given an envelope containing another photo of Ghostface’s newest victim and a typed note that read, quote: ‘I’m not done yet.’ Police are currently...” </i>
</p><p>Danny is wearing a simple white t-shirt and it barely registers in the dropout’s mind that this was the first time seeing his bare arms. And <i>oh fuck,</i> those baggy clothes and dark rain ponchos hadn’t done him any type of justice. If that stupid cop had tried to fight back, the serial killer probably could have won that fight regardless. The lack of blemishes did not extend to his arms, as there were a few birthmarks scattered about.</p><p>But what really drew his eye was the fading scar that ran along the side of his left forearm. </p><p>
  <i>“Forty-one-year-old George McNamara was a respected member of the Ormond police force…”</i>
</p><p>“Wanna know how I did it?” Danny says, finally, not looking away from the television.</p><p>Frank blinks out of his observations. So he’d been noticed after all. “Mornin’ to you too.”</p><p>Danny plucks the pen out of his mouth. “Afternoon, you mean.” Frank rolls his eyes as the man’s lips twitch upwards like he just told the world’s funniest joke.</p><p>“Fine,” Frank moves from his bed, plopping down on the edge of Danny’s. “Tell me.”</p><p>“You’re going to be really surprised,” Danny warns.</p><p>Frank squints at him, a little suspicious of how serious he sounds. “Try me.”</p><p>“I used my knife.”</p><p>“Ha-ha,” Frank says dryly, “You know, if the serial killer shit doesn’t work out, you should try your hand at stand-up.”</p><p>Danny lets out a noise of thought like he’s really mulling over the offer before he glances over at Frank. “You saw all that blood on my costume. Slit his throat where the pen stab was. You would have loved it, it was like something out of The Shining.” There was that certainty again, and damn if he wasn’t right. He probably <i>would</i> have loved it. Frank’s stomach does a flip. </p><p>“Anyways, strung him up…” He jerks his chin towards the television. “See for yourself. They’re showing the picture.”</p><p>A wicked pleasure shoots through him faster than any type of alcohol could provide just from seeing the dead cop. The way his head sloped like an unused doll makes Frank wonder why he’d ever been nervous around him in the first place. He’d been nothing more than their plaything, hadn’t he?</p><p>As per usual, the photo was heavily censored. Ghostface was in the foreground, flashing the camera a peace sign. Behind him, he notices that McNamara had been hung by the rope around his neck, the rope ensnared his torso. The throat wound had stained his chest red, but the new wound was the most notable— a vertical slash to gut him.</p><p>“Like the pig he was,” Danny hums, letting the chair go back on its four legs.</p><p>Yeah, it’s pretty fucked up, but Frank laughs. “Good addition,” he approvingly replies, “Too bad we couldn’t have… like,” he gestures vaguely. “Put a pig head over his.”</p><p>Danny tilts his head back with his own laugh, not at all fazed by the dropout’s outlandish suggestion. Frank thinks he could listen to it on repeat forever.  “Next time, I’ll remember to carry one around.”</p><p>“Sucks they never show the full picture...” Frank muses before he becomes hopeful, “Oh wait, but you have the originals right? Let me see ‘em.”</p><p>A contemplative look appears on the serial killer’s face then. “Hmm, no,” he says, after a moment, “I get rid of those. Can’t have any evidence laying around.”</p><p>Frank’s brow creases at that. That was... a bizarre hesitation from the other. Why would he lie about that? It’s not like Frank didn’t know he took the photo. He debates pressing it further but decides against it. The two of them were having a good thing going, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to rile up the man who just cut up someone like a farm animal.</p><p>“Oh,” he decides to play along with the blatant lie. “Yeah, that’s smart.”</p><p>Danny regards him carefully. Frank suddenly feels like an ant under a magnifying glass, being burned by the sun. “I know,” Danny replies finally, “that’s why I thought of it.” He goes back to the television then.</p><p>
  <i>“Officer McNamara is survived by his wife Lisa and daughter Hailey...”</i>
</p><p>Why the fuck did the tension suddenly get so thick? The serial killer doesn’t seem at all affected by the change in the air, so maybe it was just Frank? He runs a hand through his hair, trying to stifle his rising disquiet. God, he can’t even hear the television anymore. He just needs something to break the silence.</p><p>“What happened to your arm?” Frank blurts out.</p><p>Grey eyes are back on Frank. “The scar?” Frank nods and Danny turns his arm to look at it better. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, really, but not everyone is so easy to kill. Got it a while back, some bitch slashed me with a shard of glass.” He sighs warmly at the memory. “She only delayed the inevitable, but it made it more exciting.”</p><p>“How many people have you killed?”</p><p>Danny tsks. “Oh come on, baby. That’s not very fair. Now it’s my turn to ask a question.” He looks the dropout up and down as if thinking of what to ask. “How about…” He taps his chin. “You tell me about your scars.” He gestures to Frank’s hands.</p><p>“Knife fight,” Frank answers, a bit too quickly. When Danny perks up an eyebrow, he continues lamely: “Sometimes, it gets boring around here… So my friends and I would have—”</p><p>Danny scoffs and stands, makes his way so he’s in front of Frank. “Come on now, <i>partner.”</i> He takes hold of Frank’s hand, tracing his thumb over the largest scar across his knuckle. He leans into Frank. “What did I say about lying?”</p><p>It’s incredibly tempting to point out his hypocrisy. It’s in his throat but doesn’t leave, as he becomes too focused on the other’s breath ghosting his lips. “... I promise you, it’s fucking lame.”</p><p>Frank’s brain stops functioning for a second when the other man brings up their hands and plants a kiss on his knuckles. “You can tell me anything,” Danny purrs.</p><p>“That’s gay,” Frank intelligently counters and Danny snorts but kisses them again.</p><p>“Yeah? And what does that make you?”</p><p>Frank doesn’t answer that, so Danny decides to just kiss him on the lips to get his answer. The dropout returns the kiss earnestly, but before it can go further the older man breaks it. “Don’t leave me in suspense, baby.”</p><p>“I’d get bored,” Frank starts and Danny lets his hands go to gently press him down against the mattress. This action causes Frank to stammer, “I’d uh…” </p><p>“Go on,” Danny murmurs, putting his hands to either side of Frank’s shoulder. He dips his head down, kisses his jawline, and begins to trail downwards. Frank tries to kill the noise that threatens to escape, but instead, it comes out strangled. This elicits a chuckle from the serial killer.</p><p>“Sometimes I’d just mess around with the knife,” Frank admits, his voice straining not to sound flustered. He tilts his head back, shivering as Danny’s tongue traces his Adam’s apple. “I liked watching myself bleed.”</p><p>“Why?” Danny asks against the sneer of the skull tattoo. One hand lazily drifts downwards, fiddling with the end of Frank’s shirt.</p><p>“Same as you. It was exciting.”</p><p>Danny’s voice is sweet and low. “See? Was that so hard?” He returns his lips to Frank’s, hard and deep. Frank greets his tongue eagerly, parting his mouth open so Danny can explore his mouth better. The dropout’s back arches as Danny’s hand slithers behind his shirt, the cold contrasting against Frank’s burning skin. His other hand buries itself into those blond locks, grasping them tight enough to get a discernible moan from the dropout.</p><p>Frank’s own hands move on their own accord, desperate to explore the body of his partner. To learn everything he can about him. They race up along Danny’s back— elated by the way his back concaves at the dip, by how his shoulder blades flex instinctively beneath the touch. The two of them continue to explore each other’s body, Danny doesn’t give him much time to breathe in between their kisses as he grinds against the dropout.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” Frank manages to gasps out, grasping onto him a little tighter than before.</p><p>All he can think is: <i>Holy shit. He’s real. He’s real and this is happening.</i></p><p>
  <i>This is happening.</i>
</p><p>That sinks into him.</p><p>The way their bodies are meeting and the way they’re kissing again and wait, hold on, Danny’s hand squeezes his hip so tight it’ll bruise and suddenly it’s all too much and </p><p>“Wait,” Frank is breathless when they pull apart, and his voice is so inaudible he isn’t sure whether he thought it or said it. When Danny tries to kiss him once more, he turns his head to the side. Louder this time: “Wait.”</p><p>“Wait?” Danny mirrors, bemused, but he ceases in his movements.</p><p>“Yeah— wait, I uh…” Frank’s brain scrambled for an excuse. “I uh… I forgot I’m meeting up with my friend in a bit.”</p><p>Danny’s expression becomes unreadable then.</p><p>“I, um, securing the alibi, you know?” Frank continues rapidly. He’s blabbering now and they both know it. “I’ve been missing for almost a whole day now—”</p><p>A long silence envelops the two. Frank’s heart is pounding loudly against his chest as Danny’s gaze roams over his body. It was worse, Frank decides, that Danny’s face gave away nothing. He’s used to anger, not this. Then, Danny smiles, and it takes everything in Frank not to sigh in relief when the serial killer moves off of him. </p><p>His voice drips with something akin to amusement, and it occurs to Frank that Danny probably enjoyed watching Frank make a fuckin’ fool of himself. “It’s fine. Just make sure next time, your plans with your <i>friends</i> don’t interrupt us, okay?”</p><p>“Uh,” Frank is a little caught off-guard by how easily Danny follows his request, propping himself up on his elbows. Maybe he just gets up too fast, because his head is still stirring. “Yeah. Okay.”</p><p>“Be careful out there,” Danny cautions, once Frank leaves the bed and begins retrieving his belongings. He’s returned to that serious demeanor like nothing ever happened. “This isn't some background character. George <i>despised</i> you and that fact will put you on the top of the suspect list.”</p><p>Frank shoves his feet back into his sneakers, glances over at Danny to see him with eyes narrowed in thought. It didn’t seem like Danny was pissed, but how could he really be sure? It irritates him like an unscratchable itch.</p><p>“I guess if anything goes wrong,” he notes tentatively, trying to probe for any type of emotion,  “you can just throw me under the bus, huh?”</p><p>“What a waste that’d be,” Danny replies, simply. <i>Great.</i> That answered nothing. Frank continues to ready himself. “George was right about one thing. The other cops are complete idiots. There’s a reason I latched onto him.”</p><p>Frank finishes by throwing on his jacket. “Basically, we don’t have to worry.”</p><p><i>“Basically,”</i> Danny corrects, stepping towards him. He reaches out, adjusts the lapels of the fake black leather. The gesture soothes Frank’s worries, assures him that Danny wasn’t going to stab him for essentially blue-balling him. “If anything goes wrong, it’d be because of your own stupidity.”</p><p>Frank’s relieved to know things were fine between them, but that didn’t mean he was going to take that comment laying down. “Not yours?” He asks, innocently.</p><p>Danny snorts, not even dignifying his words with a response. “Don’t make any plans for Saturday, alright? If you have work that day, call off.” Before Frank can ask why, he continues: “We’re picking lucky victim six.”</p><p>When Frank exits the motel room, it’s like entering a whole other world. Or rather, it was like reentering the reality he wasn’t aware he had left. The air is fresh, cool. The sky above is the brightest blue he’s seen in a long time and the sun is in full view. The motel room had a completely different feel to it, like time had no meaning and Frank can’t put a finger as to why.</p><p>He enters his car but doesn’t drive off right away. The events that occurred inside are tormenting his head and as he can’t stop thinking about how he just… pussied out. He presses his forehead against the top of his steering wheel, not giving a shit whether or not the other man was watching him from the window. He should have just <i>gone</i> with it. It wasn’t like he wasn’t into it, but there was a big difference between thinking about it and actually fucking doing it.</p><p>He lifts his head slowly, glances wearily at the window only to see that the curtains are still drawn. There was nothing he could do about it now. Frank decides the only thing worse than backing out would be to go back crawling on all fours. Besides, he had an important meetup, didn’t he? </p>
<hr class=""/><p>It had been a while since Frank shot some hoops, but now seemed as good a time as ever. The metronomic sound of the basketball thumping the concrete over and over helped to keep his brain from occupying itself too much with his partner. Besides, he liked basketball. Frank had never been a jock, per se, but he’d participated in sports when he could. It kept him out of the house, kept him out late. Made him seem like a responsible student so his various fosters would keep off his ass.</p><p>He threw the ball and it playfully hit the top of the rim before bounding downwards. </p><p>Fuck. He was really rusty.</p><p>“You’re really rusty,” Joey comments, watching the ball try to roll away to freedom from his seat on the bench. He had been sketching the various poses Frank had done, quietly working on his art studies. Frank was just grateful that he hadn’t had a shift. Though… he had a feeling that Joey probably would have called off if he did have one. Always reliable for their leader.</p><p>“I am not,” Frank retorts hotly as he goes to retrieve it. “It’s the ball, it’s smooth as fuck.” He inspects it critically, rolling it around in his hands. “How long have these been here, anyway?”</p><p>Joey nods sagely. “Since Principal Lockhart went to school.”</p><p>Frank snorts at the thought of that old dinosaur— he had several run-ins with him, and one of the best things about being expelled was not having to hear his stupid lectures anymore. The man spoke as slowly as molasses and had a habit of speaking in redundancies. According to what the others had told him, he’s had that balding white hair ever since they were little.</p><p>He’d probably throw a hissy fit if he saw Frank in the schoolyard. It was nearly dusk now, so no one was around except for the two teenagers. And the school janitor, who had cheerily greeted the artist before whistling off into the building. When Frank had asked about it, Joey shrugged and said: “He’s a good dude.”</p><p>Frank positions himself carefully, not wanting to get any closer inside the court. He grips the ball tight, adjusts his arms to shoot and—</p><p>“Oh, hold that!” Joey calls out to him, quickly lifting his pencil and getting to work.</p><p>Frank gives an exaggerated sigh. “Joey, no offense, but how the fuck am I suppose to play if I keep having to stop every two seconds?”</p><p>“These are quick sketches,” Joey insists as he does his best not to take peeks at his work, “I’m not supposed to take a long time with them. Hang on… One second… Frank, swear to god, move your head back where it was.” His head falls to make his finishing touches. “Okay… See!” He perks up. “Done!”</p><p>“If I miss, it’s your fault.”</p><p>Frank shoots his shot. This time, the ball bounces around the rim before twirling and falling through the net. Joey looks at him smugly and Frank flips him off. </p><p>“That was because I threw at a better angle,” Frank tells him.</p><p>“So let me get this straight,” Joey raises an eyebrow. “When you actually manage to land it, it’s because of you. But when you fuck up, it’s because of me.”</p><p>“And the problem is…?” Frank, having retrieved the ball, readies himself up once more.</p><p>“Yeah, you wouldn’t see one,” Joey scoffs, though there’s no real anger in his words. “I don’t know how I’m going to survive rooming with you.” </p><p>Frank misses his shot. “Huh?”</p><p>“You know,” Joey says like Frank really <i>should</i> know, “When we leave Ormond?”</p><p>“Oh,” Frank replies, “That’s right.”</p><p>The Get-Outta-Ormond Fund was beginning to look more filled with the three of them working, especially since Julie and Joey were actually diligent and picked up more shifts here and there. The thought of leaving had been incredibly far from his mind ever since, really, he and Ghostface had first teamed up with one another.</p><p>… What was he going to do once they had enough money? When they could afford to pack up and leave everything behind them without a second thought? He watches as the ball begins to roll further and further away. It wasn’t like the Legion would be so ready to leave without their dear leader. And was he seriously contemplating staying behind just so he could spend more time with the killer? That was stupid. No, no. </p><p>Plans hadn’t changed.</p><p>Once the jar was full enough, that was it. He and the Legion were off to greener pastures. Ghostie was fun and all, but the Legion was his family. He wasn’t about to leave them behind just so he can keep going on a killing spree. </p><p>“Frank?” Joey’s voice, steady and as calming as ever, is able to break him from his thoughts.</p><p>Frank pretends like he hadn’t just zoned out, going off to grab the ball. It had rolled right by Joey’s foot, so the junior bent down and picked it up for him. “Thanks.”</p><p>“You know, I don’t think we’ll leave until after the girls graduate,” Joey says, kindly, as he passes him the basketball. Frank takes it in his hands but doesn’t return to the court. Instead, he plops down next to the other teenager.</p><p>“That sucks,” Frank lies, stretching like he didn’t give a shit about any of this. “But, whatever. It’s not like there’s a rush or anything, now that the cop’s dead.”</p><p>At that, Joey stills. He glances over to Frank and maybe the dropout hadn’t realized it, but Joey did. The way Frank spoke about the newly deceased officer was so… so… <i>casual.</i> And Joey knew the two weren’t exactly on great terms, but it was like it didn’t bother him at all. Joey tries not to think about it, but it’s too late. He’s back to that night, back to his ex-coworker, and back to Frank’s detached attitude.</p><p>
  <i>“Frank,” he manages, “Why did you do that?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“He was going to hurt Julie,” was the composed answer.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Joey stares as the man lays there dying. The two of them have never been that close, really, but the janitor used to give him snacks whenever they worked at the same time. When Joey had shown him his art, the man had praised him. Gregory wouldn’t have hurt anyone. But Frank… Frank’s wounds were deeper than anyone else’s, done with the intent to inflict pain. </i>
</p><p>He forces himself out of the memory, forces himself to not think about it. That wasn’t who Frank was. That was just one fucked up night. Everyone looked at Frank like he was some kind of menace to society, but Joey knew better. He’s seen Frank’s devotion to the Legion firsthand, like when Susie was sick and Frank stayed by her side until she got better, or whenever Joey found himself overstressing and Frank would tell some stupid joke to cheer him up.</p><p>That was the real Frank Morrison.</p><p>“Everyone is too busy with Ghostface,” Frank was saying. Joey tunes back in. “So we can slip out of here like nothing ever happened.”</p><p>“It’s all pretty fucked up,” Joey replies with a shake of his head. “You know we’re going to be on curfew now? No one in or out anytime after nine pm. It’s starting to feel like an honest to god horror movie.”</p><p>Frank almost wants to reassure the other boy that there was nothing to worry about for them. Besides, given Ghostface’s track record, it seemed like he was way more focused on adults than teenagers. Maybe he thought it was too stereotypical? Jason and Freddy seemed to have that market completely capitalized, anyway.</p><p>“It’s not like there’s anywhere fun to go,” Frank says with a shrug.</p><p>“Actually,” Joey brightens as he remembers something. “Susie suggested we—”</p><p>“Frank Morrison?”</p><p>The two paused in their conversation, turning their heads towards the entrance of the yard to see two men, dressed in the same tan uniform that McNamara wore. They were clearly other officers. The boys glance at one another as the men come up to them. They aren’t familiar in the slightest. One is rather portly with a graying handlebar mustache and the other looks to be not much older than Frank, short and skinny. Neither of them look particularly intimidating, even as Joey grows rigid in Frank’s steed.</p><p><i>“Why are they here?”</i> Joey whispers to him, confused.</p><p><i>“Who did McNamara hate more than me?”</i> Frank whispers back, before plopping on his feet. “Yeah, that’s me. What about it?” Joey’s eyes widen in alarm at the other’s informal way of speaking to them, but Frank ignores it. He shifts the ball to under one arm.</p><p>“Hi,” greets the short one, who has an oddly shaky voice. He eyes Frank’s possession. “Do you like basketball?” </p><p>“I used to play here,” Frank says carefully, slowly. He… He thought him being arrested by McNamara would have been something that the officer already knew, considering that’s why McNamara grew to harbor such a grudge against him in the first place. Were they just playing stupid?</p><p>“Good choice in sport! I used to play varsity myself, back in ‘81. Name’s Officer Pinkett and this is my friend Officer Thompson. We were friends of Officer McNamara’s. You know him?” </p><p>He speaks so kindly it makes Frank want to vomit. He’s already played this game with Jed, he certainly didn’t need another adult trying to act all innocent. “Yeah, sort of.”</p><p>“Yes, good!” Officer Pinkett nods. “Well, sorry thing about that. Our friend has passed away.”</p><p>Frank’s eyebrows furrow and he glances back towards Joey, who is watching with the same expression of: <i>is this dude fucking serious?</i> Did he not seem to get the memo that he was talking to a nineteen-year-old and not a grade-schooler? </p><p>“Uh, yeah. I saw the news,” Frank returns, pointedly.</p><p>“Young man,” says Officer Thompson, in a deep bass that completely contrasted Pinkett’s. This was the one who called his name. “Would you mind if we asked you where you were around eight to midnight last night?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Frank keeps his voice steady. “I was with a reporter, Jed Olsen. He was interviewing me about the recent crimes going around. We were mostly in his motel room, but we stopped to grab a bite to eat at Michelle’s. I’m sure he has logs or something.” He ignores the inquisitive look Joey shoots at him.</p><p>“Oh, I love that diner,” Officer Thompson tells him, “I’m a fan of the steak and eggs, myself.” Frank notices neither of them has bothered to pull out a notepad. Yikes. If this was McNamara, he would have attempted to dissect every single word already. </p><p>“So if we were to ask Jed Olsen,” Officer Pinkett continues, “he could tell us that you were out with him during this time?”</p><p>“Yep,” Frank pops the p. The officers look… strangely relieved. Did they think Frank was going to actually confess or something? Or maybe they were just happy to have a new lead?</p><p>“Great!” Officer Thompson tells him, cheerily. “That’s a big help. Now,” He puts his hands on his holster. “If you kids see any trouble out here, you’ll call us won’t you?”</p><p>“Sure,” Frank and Joey reply in unison. </p><p>The two officers give their farewell and the teenagers watch as they depart, talking amongst one another. Officer Pinkett laughs at something. That was cringeworthy to experience, Frank decides. Unsurprisingly, it looked like Danny had been right. If Frank <i>had</i> fucked that up somehow, he would have had to be incredibly stupid. Now that he was remembering… Didn’t Danny say that McNamara was some type of lone wolf? Was it possible his coworkers didn’t even <i>care</i> that he died?</p><p>When they’re gone from sight, Joey turns back to look at him. </p><p>“Olsen…” Joey tilts his head ever so slightly to the side. “Isn’t that the reporter that hung around Officer McNamara? Who interviewed us?”</p><p>“Yeah, that’s him.”</p><p>Joey didn’t seem as content to let the conversation drop as the cops had. “Why would he be interviewing you about <i>Ghostface?”</i></p><p>Thinking quickly, Frank smirks and begins to dribble the ball. “I told him I got a Ghostface call.”</p><p>
  <i>“You what?!”</i>
</p><p>“Relax, Joey, relax. I just decided to fuck with him a bit, he was being so fucking nosy. I thought if I made myself look like a victim, he’d get off our backs.” He shrugs.</p><p>“Frank, that’s…” Joey doesn’t finish his statement, probably to keep from offending the dropout. “That’s… Putting yourself into the spotlight,” he tries again, “When we’re trying to stay out of it.”</p><p>“It’s no big deal, honest. He’s going to put me as an anonymous source, so no harm no foul.”</p><p>“Lots of harm, lots of foul!” Joey protests, unable to believe what he’s hearing. “What if he had asked a question that made you look suspicious? That was way too dangerous, Frank!”</p><p>Frank’s eyes narrow. Family or not, he was still the leader of the Legion. That kind of fucking talk against him wasn’t going to be tolerated. “You think I can’t handle myself or what?” Frank snaps. He misses the ball as it bounces upwards and it goes off to places unknown.</p><p>Joey freezes then. “No,” he’s quick to backtrack. “No, of course not. It’s just…” His eyes dart to the side. “I’m just a bit worried. I don’t want you to get yourself in a big mess, ya know?”</p><p>Irritation rolls off of Frank in waves. God. He certainly hadn’t missed this. With Danny, there were never these stupid fucking concerns. Danny <i>trusted</i> Frank to take care of things. He didn’t treat Frank like he was fragile, like he was a danger to himself. He treated Frank with fuckin’ respect, which is less than he can say for the rest of them. He wasn’t sure <i>what’s</i> gotten into the Legion, but between Julie and this, it seemed they were always hounding him for no fuckin’ reason at all. </p><p>He swallows back his anger. He couldn’t just storm off again. It’d just make them worry for him even more. That’s right. He wasn’t with Danny anymore, he had to throw back on the mask. Pretend to be the Frank Morrison everyone thought he was again. He takes a moment to regain his cool, before he nods.</p><p>“Whatever, I get it. But you don’t have to be worried, alright? I won’t do anything stupid.”</p><p>Joey watches him carefully before his eyes fall to their feet. “Alright, you’re right. Sorry.”</p><p>“So,” Frank gives a grin, wide and carefree like the whole conversation never happened. “What was Susie saying?”</p><p>The two continue their routine, with Frank grabbing another basketball and Joey flipping the page of his sketchbook. The next hour ticked by slowly. Neither of them pointed it out, but it was clear that the tension in the air was much too heavy no matter how many times they tried to switch conversations. Eventually, the two decided it was best to part ways for the evening. “I have work in the morning anyway,” Frank lied.</p><p>Joey stays on that bench just a little longer, watching as Frank goes, before he looks back to his final sketch he composed of his friend. The teenager in it was unrecognizable.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">i debated with them fucking in this chapter for quite a while, but it just didn't feel right to frank's character. he's just starting to get comfortable with the idea of being romantically involved with danny, ya know? give him a bit more time. i promise it'll be worth it!</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">in other news, do you guys like the new font? this was SUPPOSE to be the font since the very beginning. but turns out i had a typo in my workskin css and i barely noticed it the other day lmfao. i was wondering why it was so small for <i>ages.</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">but big thank you to my dear beta readers bwoo and megidola for refusing to let me feel bad over my writing, you two are ;w; so good to me honestly. 💕</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Alcatraz</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The locker slams shut in front of Susie’s face and she steps back a little from the unexpected bruteness of the gesture. </p><p>“I’ve already tried,” Julie was saying to Joey, her hand still on her locker. In her other arm was the textbook and trapper keeper she needed for the next class— academic math, which Susie deeply regretted having taken. “But we can only help so much, if he doesn’t want to talk to us that’s on him, <i>not</i> us.”</p><p>The black teenager rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh. “I know, I know.” He turns his focus back on the blonde, a deep frown etched into his features. “Trust me. I <i>know.</i> But we can’t just look the other way.”</p><p>“Well, what are we supposed to do?”</p><p>Susie had no idea what her friends were on about, but it seemed like Frank was the topic of the day. Not that she ever minded. She missed seeing their leader up and down the halls, but when they spoke about him it made his absence a lot more palatable. So she stays quiet, holds her books a little tighter, and tries to keep up with the conversation.</p><p>“I told him Susie wanted us to all hangout…” Joey continues, lamely, “I told him she’d really wanted to go to the mall.”</p><p>Julie rocks back on her heels, her eyes closing as she mulls over that. Her curls bounce with the tilt of her head. It was clear that the senior was lost in thought, and she gave no reply.</p><p>“Me?” Susie pipes up in order to break the silence, causing them to glance towards her. She definitely hadn’t mentioned needing to go to the mall, not with her being so busy with dance preparations. “Why?”</p><p>“Well, uh. I just thought he’d be more down if it came from you. But… He’d said he’d need to make sure he wouldn’t be busy with work.” Joey’s worry didn’t just extend to his voice, his hands wringing together as if to stop them from twitching. “I didn’t even give a day.”</p><p>“Shit,” Julie mutters under her breath, before turning fully to Susie. There was a fire in her eyes that Susie hadn’t seen from her in a while. “You wouldn’t be willing to stop by the gas station today, would you? Pretty sure he’s working since he’s always claiming he’s there.”</p><p>“Well...” Susie nibbles her lower lip as she mentally runs through her schedule for the day. Fridays were always the peak of her busyness and this time was no different. She had quite a bit to do— posters still needed to be made, the budget committee was still in arms over how expensive the smoke machine was and that needed to be settled, not to mention the whole curfew fiasco…</p><p>
  <i>What was she saying?!</i>
</p><p>There seemed to be something up with their dear friend, and here she was so selfishly thinking about herself. If she was the one in trouble, Frank wouldn’t have hesitated to leap to her rescue. Her resolve becomes firm then and she gives a brisk nod. “Yeah, it’s no problem.”</p><p>The look of relief that crosses her best friends’ features tells her all she needs to know in that moment. Of course, she hadn’t been blind to the fact that Frank continuously seemed to step away from their activities, but she had just figured he really was busy. After all, everyone was working so hard to fill the ‘Get-Outta-Ormond’ Fund… Maybe he was just overworking himself?</p><p>“Okay,” Joey puts a hand on her shoulder, gone was the worry and replaced with a fierce determination. “So here’s what you’ll say…”</p><p>It’s not long after that the second bell rings and Joey parts ways with them with a quick goodbye. Susie envies the junior, who was spared from Mrs. Faustine’s incredibly snooze-inducing lectures. The two girls walk to their class. </p><p>Susie can’t stop herself from asking: “Is it really that bad?”</p><p>“Do you remember that time you tried to dye your hair blonde and you came out looking like a pumpkin?”</p><p>Her cheeks heat up at the memory and she’s a little offended by the reminder. That’d happen back in freshman year and the two had made a pact to never speak of it again. Slowly she answers: “Yeah…”</p><p>Julie gives her a stern look. “Worse than that.”</p><p>The day seemed to drag on with the weight of her best friends’ words heavy in her mind. It brought her back to the last time she had visited Frank at the gas station. It had been the day after he stormed out of the diner, right? Back then, he had seemed… different. He had asked her whether or not she missed all the crazy shit they’d used to do. And she had told him no.</p><p>After that, he’d been so quiet. She hadn’t pushed it. <i>Should she have?</i> The thought makes her nervous. Could <i>she</i> be the reason he was so upset? Was it because the Legion wasn’t doing their petty crimes anymore? Maybe she should have lied, told him she still did miss it. Then would things be alright between them? Argh, no! She told herself she wouldn’t <i>overthink</i> things anymore. So she wasn’t. Going. To. Do. That.</p><p>The formal committee was none too thrilled to not have their head there for the meeting, but as it’d been a first for her they all let it slide. Susie felt like she could breathe easy again, just for a bit. This whole thing was the first time she’d been in any type of leadership role, and she wasn’t sure how Frank <i>did</i> it. It was one-hundred percent <i>totally</i> stressful. She always felt like she was channeling him whenever she had to give an order.</p><p>Ormond was a small town. She’d moved here when she was in grade school, so though she didn’t have many memories of big city life, it was still rather jarring to be able to get from one place to another in less than an hour or so. The only place that really broke away from that tradition was Petro and Park, where Frank worked. That was far in the outskirts of town and from what he’s told them, it was usually empty.</p><p>Susie once compared it to that prison out in America called Alcatraz. After she explained to him why, Frank had laughed and said: “Yeah, sounds ‘bout right.” </p><p>She wonders, as she steps off of the bus, if he ever missed them while in isolation. Even this was one of the last stops on Ormond’s only bus line, like even it didn’t want to come out here. She surveys the parking lot, sees that it’s just as depressed-looking as ever. The only car she sees as she makes her way to the store is Frank’s beat-up silver car, parked far in the corner.</p><p>As she’s about to open the door, she hears a laugh from inside. Her hand stills at the handle. She recognizes that laugh, but she hasn’t heard it in a very long time. Instead of going in, like she probably should have, Susie peers in through the glass. Like she suspected, the store was completely empty. Yet… there was Frank. He hadn’t spotted her, but she can see their leader with a big grin and he’s talking.</p><p>The question was: <i>to who?</i></p><p>She strains to see the cord of his work phone but finds nothing. She can’t really make out what he’s saying, but she can hear the inflection in tone and he sounds happy. Just. Happy. And at that moment, her heart wants to burst with her own elation. Why had Julie and Joey been so worried? He was <i>clearly</i> a-ok. </p><p>She could just go back now, honestly, and he’d be none the wiser. That thought doesn’t sit right with her. Which is funny, because it should? Because he’s fine? Yet the words of their friends echo in her ears and she purses her lips into a tight line. She couldn’t overthink this. She just. Couldn’t. All she had to do was go in, say hi, ask how things are. That’s it. Then everything would be right back to normal.</p><p>She hadn’t come all this way just to turn back at the door. <i>Deep breath Sus,</i> she tells herself, <i>It’s just Frank.</i> The senior tightens the grip on the handle. </p><p>Unbeknownst to her, Frank was currently in the most important debate of his life.</p><p>“No.” Frank shoves the little black cellphone closer to his ear with his shoulder as he continues to fiddle with the store keys. “No fuckin’ way. How would he… Listen, first off, there’s no way they would ever make a movie like that.”</p><p>“Why not?” came the teasing reply.</p><p><i>“Because—!”</i> Frank can’t even believe he has to spell it out for his caller. “Because all Freddy would have to do is walk into Jason’s dreams and kill him there. What the fuck is Jason going to do against that?”</p><p>“Frankie, baby,” Danny returns with a soothing purr, “Jason can’t even die. So how the <i>fuck</i> could Freddy kill him?”</p><p>“Things work differently in the dream world!” Frank insists. </p><p>His partner is in the middle of a rebuttal when he’s alerted of a customer by that fucking <i>annoying-ass</i> chiming bell. His eyes flicker over to the door and a cold races up his spine. “Shit, gotta run.” Before Danny can even begin what would probably be a goodbye, Frank’s slapped the phone shut and shoved it in his pocket. As casually as he can, he says: “Hey, Susie.”</p><p>“Hi, Frank!” The other teenager looks absolutely delighted to see him and any other time, it would have been a nice little ego boost. She watches as he steps around the counter to greet her properly. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?”</p><p>“Nope,” Frank quickly answers and when her smile falters a little, he mentally slaps himself. There was no reason to lose his chill. It was just Susie. He gives her a small smile. “I was uh… talking to Jules, is all.”</p><p>“Oh.” Big blue eyes blink, confusion in them obvious. “You didn’t have to hang up on her.”</p><p>His hand flies up to his hair, tousling it. “I thought you were an actual customer,” he explains. Not wanting to let his words sink into her, he forces his smile to grow into a grin. “Nice hair.”</p><p>Susie returns his grin with one of her own, running her fingers through teal locks. “Thanks, I thought it was time for a change.”</p><p>“Well,” he says teasingly, “if you <i>really</i> want change, maybe you should shave your head.”</p><p><i>“Frank!”</i> she huffs, indignant, “I can’t steal Joey’s look.”</p><p>He laughs with a slight shake of his head. Even when he was making fun of her, she was still quick to jump to the defense of other people rather than herself. “Guess that’s fair. Anyway, what are you doing here? Thought you’d be busy spiking punch and shit.”</p><p>Susie looks mortified. “You know I’d never do that.”</p><p>Frank sighs a little at that. Yeah, of course, she wouldn’t. He’d nearly forgotten that they were such goody-two-shoes now. Old Susie would have needed some pushing from him, sure, but she would have done it eventually. Then again, she was never a big fan of drinking, only taking a few tentative sips of the beer Frank would procure. “Right.”</p><p>She twiddles her fingers nervously, probably from the boredom in Frank’s tone. “I mean, I <i>could—”</i></p><p>“Chill, Sus. It was a joke.” </p><p>Susie gave a short laugh that was a bit higher than normal. “Yeah, I know. I was just playing along.”</p><p>“So,” Frank leans against the counter. “What’s up?”</p><p>After all, it was very obvious that there was something that she wanted to say. The way she kept shifting her eyes down to her shoes, the way that smile twitched like it was trying too hard to stay up… Not only was it clear that she had something to say, but it was also obvious that she was still intimidated by him and that fact pleases him more than it should. </p><p>“Jeez,” she tries, jokingly, “Does something have to be up in order to visit you?”</p><p>Frank’s eyes narrow into slits. “Yeah.”</p><p>For a few heartbeats, she doesn’t say anything, just kind of stares at him with a blank look on her face. “Is that true?” She asks, in that timid voice of hers.</p><p>He shrugs. She seems to be thinking back, trying to recall the times she’s come by as of late. Frank almost wants to roll his eyes, but figures it was probably better not to stress her out unnecessarily more than he’s already done. Though he had absolutely no problem letting her take the blame, it wasn't like he was making great strides to hang out with her either— not when he was so busy with Danny.</p><p>“Shit,” she says finally, “You’re right.”</p><p>For some reason, the deadly serious way she says it causes both of them to laugh. With that, the feeling in the air seems to return to normal.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Susie apologizes in earnest. “I definitely should come by more often.”</p><p>“It’s not that big of a deal,” he replies, easily. Maybe the lack of visitation would have bothered him back at the beginning of the year, back when he was still insistent on their complete obedience, but now… he honestly couldn’t bring himself to really care.</p><p>“Still, it isn’t cool of me.” She straightens up, almost mimicking Frank’s relaxed composure.</p><p>“Not really,” he agrees, just because he can.</p><p>Old Susie would have flinched at that, or the beginning of tears would spring into her eyes. Susie simply giggles, though he can sense that no matter how hard she’s trying to appear otherwise, she’s still nervous. “You got me.” she sucks in her breath and keeps her eyes fixated on his, “I did come here for a reason.”</p><p>Before Frank can even ask, she continues rapidly: “It’s because… <i>I’ve missed you!”</i></p><p>Frank blinks. That hadn’t been what he was expecting to hear. “Huh?”</p><p>“Yeah!” It seems like his confusion bolsters her confidence. Her hands ball into fists in front of her torso, before her arms jerk downwards. </p><p>Susie’s talking so fast, there’s a second delay in which he takes in her words. “We haven’t really had some time to hang out lately! So… We’re going on a mandatory Legion date!” she falters suddenly, like she’s afraid she’s gone too far, “If… if it’s that’s okay with you I mean, I get if you can’t, trust me you’re the leader so it’s—”</p><p>“Uh,” Frank starts, then pauses, then starts again, “I think the point of ‘mandatory’ is that I don’t get a say.”</p><p>“Oh, uh...” she glances to the side for a brief second before perking up again, “Normally yes! But uh, you’re our leader. So of course you do.”</p><p>Frank is a lot of things, really, but he’s not stupid. Susie was being way too… too… excitable. He regards her carefully. “You wouldn’t happen to want to go to the mall, would you?”</p><p>“Why? Do <i>you</i> want to go to the mall?”</p><p>“Joey mentioned you wanting to go, the other day.”</p><p>Her eyes widen ever-so-slightly. “Umm, yeah,” she admits, bashfully. “I need some supplies and I don’t want to go alone. But I don’t know. Joey and Julie are fun, but it just isn’t the same without you.”</p><p>This all just seemed like a bizarro attempt to stroke at his ego. Why? Did Susie think that Frank forgot who she was friends with first? Frank should tell her off for even just <i>insinuating</i> that Frank wasn’t smart enough to catch onto whatever she was plotting. But he has to play this smart. <i>What would Danny do?</i></p><p>Danny would play along.</p><p>Danny would try to get information out of her, try to figure out what she was really up to. So instead, he preens and says: “Really?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she beams at him, “So would you be down?”</p><p>“Sure, of course, if it means that much to you.” Frank grins. He doesn’t miss the relief that flashes in her eyes. “How about…” If Danny and him were going to start prepping for their next victim, they were going to be preoccupied. “Next Sunday?”</p><p>“That works!” Susie chirps, “Maybe we can even catch a movie.”</p><p>“Maybe.” Frank says.</p><p>With that out of the way, the conversation seems to flow seamlessly onto other topics. Mostly trivial shit he doesn’t really care about, like Susie’s latest failure on her math test and her time on the formal committee. It’s all easy, mindless talk that the Frank Morrison mask can keep up with. Ask the right questions here and there, call whoever he needs to a “bitch”, yadda yadda.</p><p>Still, he’d be lying if he said he <i>didn’t</i> enjoy her company. Phone calls were fine and all, but it was always better to have someone physically here rather than a voice on the other end. Besides, he liked Susie. Always had. She was nice, and Frank didn’t really have too many ‘nice’ people in his life. Most people weren’t nice without a reason. Not Susie. She was just good because she could be. It was admirable, in a way, but he’d never say that sappy shit out loud.</p><p>Frank pulls out a cigarette, lazily smoking it as they continue their banter. She makes a joke about his lungs collapsing on themselves and it makes him smile. It was ironic, really, that although he didn’t give a shit about a word she was saying, he was glad for her. </p><p>She seemed to be doing a lot better, really coming out of her shell and everything. Mentions of the murders, Ghostface, or Fink never even escaped their lips. Though, part of him wished one of them would bring it up, just so he could revel in his crimes just a little more. They were able to waste an hour or two, and it’s nearing the end of his shift when the bell chimes again.</p><p>The two teenagers both turn their heads at the same time.</p><p>And whatever Frank was about to say dies.</p><p>Because there, standing at the doorway, is Jed Olsen.</p><p>The reporter scans the area, before seemingly spotting the two of them and perking up. Frank crushes the cigarette in between his teeth as the man makes their way up to them. “Oh! H-hello there. It was so empty, I c-could have sworn it was closed.”</p><p><i>“What are you doing here?”</i> Frank hisses, causing Susie to turn her eyes on him in confusion. He ignores them to focus on Jed’s. Behind the glasses, the man blinks owlishly. But Frank isn’t fooled by the reporter’s facade anymore. He can see, plain as day, the glint of mischief in dark eyes.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry…?” Jed sounds genuinely apologetic, almost guilty. Frank had to give it to him. His acting skills were fucking incredible. “I’m just h-here for umm, some, gas and a few snacks. I-if that’s alright.” he tilts his head slightly to the side, “You… You are on t-the clock right?”</p><p>If looks could kill, the reporter would be dead ten times over. Frank crushes the cigarette on the counter tray. “Yeah, ‘course.” he feigns a sigh, turning to the teal-haired girl, “Sus, you don’t mind waiting in the break room, do ya?”</p><p>“Wha—” Frank’s pointed stare silences the beginning of her protest. “Uh, sure!” she says, with fake cheer, and shyly smiles at the reporter, “Um, take care.” With that, she went off towards the back room. </p><p>A silence befalls them then. The minute he hears the door close, Frank steps closer to Jed. “What the fuck?” he loudly whispers.</p><p><s>Jed</s> Danny mockingly pouts. Gone was the stutter, replaced with the monotonic way he spoke. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>“The <i>matter,”</i> Frank emphasizes, “is that you have no reason to be fuckin’ visiting me at work.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Danny adjusts his glasses. “You watch me work all the time. Why can’t I do the same?”</p><p>“Because my friends could be here, Exhibit A.” He jerks his head towards the back room. Danny’s eyes follow this motion.</p><p>“Oh,” he replies, innocently, “But isn’t this the first time in a while?”</p><p>Frank really regrets having told him about his lack of visitors. “Yeah, but it <i>does</i> happen.”</p><p>“You’re breaking my heart here, really,” Danny says, with no change in tone, “Got all dressed up and everything.”</p><p>“Thanks. Now leave.”</p><p>Danny laughs quietly, though his eyes narrow. “That’s rude, I’m a paying customer.”</p><p>Frank grits his teeth. “Right. Gas. Which pump?”</p><p>“Are you getting the same sense of deja-vu?” Danny asks, nonchalantly, “You planning on ripping me off this time too?”</p><p>The dropout pauses at that, though Danny’s smile remains as innocent as Florida’s. He glances back towards the back room, but the door was still closed. He wasn’t planning on having a full-length conversation with the reporter. As much as he didn’t <i>really</i> want him to leave, he had no other choice. Still, he can’t help himself from asking:</p><p>“You knew?”</p><p>“Of course, but Jed’s gullible. That’s why the people love him, it’s endearing.”</p><p>“I think he’s a sucker,” Frank retorts, shooting another glance back over his shoulder.</p><p>“Come on,” the man whispers, leaning in closer. Frank’s heart shoots up into his throat, body growing warm on its own accord. “You’re not <i>really</i> unhappy to see me, are you?”</p><p>“Fuck off,” Frank whispers back, stepping back to give them distance even as his body begs him not to. Danny watches this action with amusement. “S—”</p><p>Before he can even finish his statement, he finds Danny’s lips against his own. Frank should have pulled away, should have kicked his ass for being so brazen, but the rush of adrenaline that courses through his veins from the danger of what they just did was undeniable. He doesn’t know what it was, why he wishes he could just stay like this forever. But god, it’s tempting.</p><p>Sanity returns to him in an instant, however, and he’s quick to push away. </p><p>“You can’t just fuckin’ do that!” Frank snaps, heart still pounding a million miles a minute, though there’s a sense of relief when he sees that the door was still shut. <i>“What if she saw?!”</i></p><p>“Don’t worry,” Danny reassures with that fond smile, “I was watching the door.”</p><p>Frank rubs his forehead, only half-annoyed. “Christ, I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” Before Danny can give him some smarmy remark, he shoves him lightly towards the entrance. “Okay. Gas. Let’s go.”</p><p>“I wanted some Cheetos too—” Danny’s protest falls on deaf ears as the two of them make their way outside. </p><p>The sky has dipped into its orange and pink hues, signaling to Ormond that there were only a few hours to go before the curfew took effect. God, Frank hated that fucking curfew with a passion. He was a night owl through and through, but the few times he’s snuck out his window to explore the town has been extraordinarily fuckin’ dull. The town closing earlier than normal had been nothing compared to this, as now it was like the town was engulfed by a black hole. Just darkness and silence.</p><p>He’d thought about visiting Danny, crashing the night with him again, but he thinks back to their… uh, <i>earlier</i> encounter and he can’t bring himself to do so. Actually… Frank’s attention returns to the serial killer, who was waiting by his desired pump. This was the first time he’s seen him in person all week. Maybe… Danny missed his presence too? </p><p>Ugh. Frank stomps down the cutesy little hope that fluttered in his stomach. That thought could <i>fuck</i> right off. He was not about to start thinking all that sappy relationship shit, nope. He was glad to see Danny (but he didn’t <i>miss</i> him) and Danny probably just came by for the fuck of it. That’s all there was to it.</p><p>“I missed you, you know,” Danny softly admits, as Frank grabs the nozzle and begins to actually do his job.</p><p>
  <i>God damn it.</i>
</p><p>“Shut up,” Frank mutters, forcing his eyes to stay on the car. He kept his head tilted away, hoping the other couldn’t see how his face was burning.</p><p>The black-haired male laughs breezily. “I’m being serious.”</p><p>“Yeah, so am I.” Frank shoves the nozzle into the cap. He can feel dark eyes on him and it makes his skin crawl. “You can’t just say that kinda shit.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“It’s…” Frank struggles to think of a proper argument, “It’s fucking lame.”</p><p>“So you think I’m lame?” Danny sighs, one that was too loud to be anything other than dramatized. Frank refuses to turn around, but he sounded a <i>lot</i> closer than he did a few moments before.</p><p>“That’s not what I said,” Frank scoffs.</p><p>“First you don’t want me to visit you at work, then you don’t want to kiss me, now this?” Danny’s breath is on his neck. “I’m honestly wounded. It’s like you don’t even <i>want</i> me.” Arms slip around Frank’s waist, and he’s pulled into the man’s chest. </p><p>Frank forgets breathing is a necessary function, his grip on the nozzle tightening. In his fleeting thoughts, he’s grateful that they were behind the pump farthest from the convenience store.</p><p>“Well?” Lips against the crook of his neck. “I <i>guess</i> I don’t mind if we go back to just being work buddies...”</p><p>“No,” Frank manages.</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“I uh, I like this.” Frank forces himself to regain his composure as kisses were peppered on his skin. “I like us.” He hopes that’s enough for his partner— it was probably more than he’s told his exes. To prove his point, he releases himself from the other’s hold and stops the flow of petroleum. </p><p>Then, he turns and collides their lips together. He snags onto the man’s stupid oversized flannel, gripping onto it like it was the last thing on earth. This time, he’s not content to let Danny take the lead. He scrapes his tongue against the man’s teeth, shoving it in once Danny allows him entrance. The two kiss like they’re committing one of their murders: it’s intense and passionate and like it’s the only thing that <i>excites</i> them.</p><p>“You’re not going anywhere,” Frank tells him, his voice rough, as they part. “You’re mine.”  Grey eyes glint sharply behind the glasses and for a second, Frank worries if he went too far.</p><p>“With that in mind, I suppose I’ll manage,” Danny murmurs, pleasure dripping off his words like honey.</p><p>“Great.” Frank lets him go. “Now, let’s finish this shit up.”</p><p>Frank completes his work and the two return inside. Almost like they were back in the diner, the two fall back into their respective roles. They don’t have much of a conversation, just the normal exchange of items and money. Though he did charge the man a dollar or two extra just for being a pain in the ass. Danny crooked his eyebrow up at that, but Jed said nothing. Frank just smirked and gave his most sincere: “Would that be all?”</p><p>To which Jed replied: “O-oh, yes. Um, thanks again...”</p><p>Just like that, his visitor was gone. Frank watches him go, just admiring the way that Danny confidently strides even when in such ridiculous attire. He lingers at the counter for a moment before he knocks on the door of the break room.</p><p>“Sus?”</p><p>The door creaks open and the teal-haired girl pokes her head out. “He's gone?”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>The door swings all the way open and she steps out. He can hear the faint noise of a trashy talk show inside and he’s comforted knowing she wasn’t too bored in there. He really hadn’t meant to spend so much time with the serial killer, though he knew she wouldn’t call him out for it.</p><p>“So ummm…” Susie nibbles her lower lip as she searches his gaze, “Wasn’t that the reporter that interviewed us?”</p><p>Frank closes the door behind her. “Yeah, he’s a real piece of work. Asked me all this shit about that stupid cop.”</p><p>Susie’s eyes widen. “What did you say?”</p><p>“I told him the truth,” he answers with a shrug, “I don’t know anything.”</p><p>“Do you think we’ll be suspects? Wasn’t he already on us because of…” She trails off, but he knows exactly who she’s talking about. He shakes his head at that.</p><p>“How could we be? That was a Ghostface crime.” He says the last part pointedly. The student nods half-heartedly, again seeming lost in thought.</p><p>“Guess I’m just overthinking things…” she mumbles. Frank reaches out, ruffles her hair affectionately. </p><p>“Tell you what. Keep me company ‘till I close and I’ll drive you home. Deal?”</p><p>Susie gives him a weak attempt at a smile. Frank guesses she was shaken up at the thought of being questioned by police again. “Alright, deal.”</p><p>The rest of his shift passes without much fanfare. The two are comfortable in each other’s company, and when Susie has some questions about her math homework, he attempts to help her the best he can. Though, there’s not much success on that end:</p><p>“What’s a derivative?”</p><p>“... You might want to bug Julie about this.”</p><p>He closes up shop at around seven. Susie is quiet during the ride home, though that was nothing new with her. She was the type to zone out listening to a mix-tape, content to watch the world pass by the car window. It’s only until they parked in front of her house did she seem to snap out of her trance. She opens the car door and has one foot out when Frank tells her:</p><p> “See you, Braceface.”</p><p>Susie pauses for a moment. Before Frank can even register it, she has her arms wrapped tightly around him. His throat constricts from the touch, but before it can become alarmingly uncomfortable, she moves away. Hesitantly, she asks, “Hey, Frank?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>A long second passes between them, before she shakes her head and offers him a sweet smile. “It’s nothing. I’ll see you later.” </p><p>“Later.” Frank watches with a new curiosity as she leaves without another word. He makes sure she’s safely indoors before he takes off. </p><p>He’s back at his own house just before the curfew begins, which Clive is more than happy to point out. Frank tries to not let his irritation show— ever since he couldn’t go out to the bar and get hammered there, Clive’s taken to just doing so in his chair. But just because his life was pitiful, that didn’t mean he had to meddle in Frank’s.</p><p>He closes his bedroom door after escaping Clive’s half-intelligible lecture about a murderer being on the loose.</p><p>“God, you took forever.”</p><p>Frank jumps at the voice and he whirls around to see Danny, laying on his bed like he owned the place. The man was fiddling with Frank’s knife and the spike of fear that shot through him leaves a lingering aftermath.</p><p>“What—”</p><p>“Am I doing here?” Danny finishes, sitting up. “Let’s not rehash dialogue, baby. It gets boring.”</p><p>“Alright,” Frank steps towards him, “Then let’s skip to where you tell me.”</p><p>Danny laughs and gets off the bed. Frank didn’t remember having made it before he left, but now it was nice and tidy. The serial killer approaches him slowly.</p><p>“Isn’t it obvious?” His voice becomes a growly rasp, the same one that caused the Sullivans to burst into waterworks and beg for their lives. Under the ceiling light, Frank’s knife gleams dangerously. <i>“I’m here to kill your foster dad.”</i></p><p>Frank rolls his eyes. “Get real.” He gestures to Danny’s fitted black-and-white jacket and faded blue jeans. “You’re not exactly dressed for the occasion.”</p><p>Danny smiles brightly and his voice returns to normal: “True. So let’s go out instead.”</p><p>The dropout’s eyebrows furrow. “Right now?”</p><p>“No, next Friday.” Danny scoffs. “Yes, right now.”</p><p>“Where? It’s not exactly like there’s anything open.”</p><p>“Then let’s just go for a drive,” Danny replies, as if it’s all so simple. He puts the knife back in its sheath. “We can go back to the motel afterwards.”</p><p>“Or you can drop me off back here.” Frank counters. Though, if given the option between the two, he’d choose going back with Danny over having to come back to Clive any day of the week. </p><p>Danny seems to know this too, but he gives a carefree shrug. “If that’s what you want.”</p><p>Frank holds out his hand and Danny presses the knife flat onto his palm. Frank’s fingers curl around it and he pockets it. “Alright. Fuck it. I’m game.”</p><p>“Every word you speak is like poetry to my ears,” Danny sighs with a mocking fondness.</p><p>It’s easy to sneak out right under Clive’s nose, as there weren't any bars on his bedroom window keeping him from escaping unlike some of the other homes he’s lived in. The two make their way to Danny’s car, which was as black as the night above them. Not a single star could be seen as dark clouds still roamed the sky. According to the weatherman, it was going to rain tonight. </p><p>Frank doesn’t think he could even begin to describe how freeing it was to just… up and leave. And this was only just for a night. He could only imagine just how satisfying it’ll feel when he and his friends skip town for good. He slides into the passenger seat, for the first time since he came to the tiny mountain town. </p><p>
  <i>“You’ll love it here, Frank,” lied his social worker, “There’s so much to do around here.”</i>
</p><p>Danny turns on the radio, already tuned to a rock station that Frank listens to often at work, and begins to drive. Frank’s heart is thumping along with the bass and he finds himself watching the other man more than the view outside. Like everything else about him, he was composed and in control as he drove. One hand on the wheel, the other against his mouth in thought.</p><p>His gaze flickers back to the window. Gone was the mountain, gone were the streets, gone was the gas station. Frank looks back, watches as the town becomes smaller and smaller in the distance. It’s a wonderful sight. Soon, they find themselves weaving through the forest that hid Ormond from the rest of the world. Eventually, the only light was from the car’s headlights.</p><p>They’ve been driving for quite some time when Frank leans back with a sigh. “I love this.” The words that’d been in his head escaped his mouth without giving him a chance to stop them.</p><p>Without taking his eyes off the road, the dark-haired man’s lips quirk. “What?”</p><p>“This.” Frank gestures to the road. Even with the bright beams of the car, it was hard to see what was ahead. Like it was all some big mystery that was beckoning them forward. “Just… being out. Listening to music while we cruise.”</p><p>“Cruise?” Danny’s smile becomes a smirk as he teases the dropout. “What is this, the fifties?”</p><p>Frank snorts. “Shut up.” he’s careful about his next words, wondering if he should even say them, “It’s… true though. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to do something like this.”</p><p>Danny glances over to him, clearly catching the seriousness of how he spoke. Still, perhaps to put Frank at ease, he jokes: “What? Don’t you have a car?”</p><p>“It’s not the same,” Frank admits, turning his attention to the leaves that swayed with the wind outside. “Not worrying about driving, just letting someone… take the wheel, I guess.”</p><p>Frank knew Danny would understand what he meant. The man turns his attention back to the road ahead. “That’s a lot of faith you’re putting in me. I could crash right now and kill us both.”</p><p>“Nah,” Frank replies without a trace of hesitation, “That wouldn’t even make the front page.”</p><p>The serial killer just chuckles and Frank lets his eyes close, lets the heavy metal and the purring of the car’s engine wash over him as the beginning of rain hits the roof.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">ten chapters left. megidola approved the finalized outline. are you ready because me neither <i>aaaa</i></span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">this seems like a good time to plug my socials!!: <a href="https://writetxt.tumblr.com/">@writetxt</a> on tumblr or <a href="https://twitter.com/fragileao3">@fragileao3</a> on twitter. come yell at me to write or send me memes. :')) i'll prob be posting updates and wips as well!</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">thank u to megidola &amp; bwoo for taking the time to beta read this! you guys are literal royalty. ♥</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Escapism</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frank awakens to the smell of grease and pancakes. When the last of sleep leaves him, he blinks open, recognizing his surroundings immediately. He was back at the motel. The memories of last night flood him in an instant—</p>
<p>The two had driven up to a lake, closer to Calgary than Ormond. The rain had not touched this area, so the moon shone down on them through the clear sky. Because Calgary was warmer than the mountain town, the lake had begun to unfreeze itself. It was quite a sight to behold, Frank had to admit. The two had stayed in the car, enjoying each other's company and talking about who even remembered what.</p>
<p>Danny had leaned against the steering wheel, his arms crossed on top of it, and asked: “Where do you want to go after this?”</p>
<p>Frank had misunderstood what he meant. “I guess your place?”</p>
<p>Danny tittered, still looking off towards the lake. Off towards places unknown. “No, silly boy. Where do you want to go after we’re done with Ormond?”</p>
<p>The dropout froze at his words.</p>
<p>“We can’t stay there forever, after all.”</p>
<p>Danny spoke evenly, like he’d had the entire plan mapped out and would be willing to take off this very second if Frank gave the word. He… He never even considered the possibility that the serial killer would want to take him in his next venture. That wasn’t in the plan. </p>
<p><i>That wasn’t in the plan.</i> </p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Frank admitted, “I haven’t thought about it.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Danny’s eyes were on him then, sharp with interest. “I figured you would have, considering how badly you want to ‘get out of Ormond.’”</p>
<p>
  <i>The jar.</i>
</p>
<p>Danny had seen the Get-Outta-Ormond Fund, halfway filled with loose cash, that he kept in his room. Frank’s mouth dried. How could he even begin to tell him…? He thought back to his friends, to the idea of them all in Joey’s mom’s van exploring the world together. It doesn’t make him as content as it might have once. Now, it filled his stomach with a sense of dread.</p>
<p>Or was that from how Danny had looked at him?</p>
<p>“I’ve been too busy lately,” Frank had told him, which hadn’t been a lie, “If you remember.”</p>
<p>Danny seemed to have bought his flimsy excuse, a light smile etched his face. “Well. Think about it.”</p>
<p>And then he started up the car. And the two had driven back, continuing on like the conversation had never happened.</p>
<p>Frank rises from the motel bed, giving a stretch. Compared to that lump of a bed he had back home, the mattress here was downright heavenly. He had fallen asleep quickly, perhaps to avoid the thoughts that now returned to plague his mind. He steps quietly, careful to avoid making noise, as he makes his way to the bathroom.</p>
<p>He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want to leave with Danny. If he hadn’t wanted Danny to keep driving last night, taking them who knows where. If he didn’t want to continue their murder-spree like they were some modern-day Bonnie and Clyde. But he just couldn’t justify leaving behind the rest of the Legion. No matter how much they were getting on his nerves, they were still his family. He couldn’t picture a life without them in it. </p>
<p>Besides, he hadn’t been with Danny very long. And he was impulsive, but not that fucking impulsive.</p>
<p>And when he thinks about it, he hardly even <i>knows</i> anything about his partner. He could spout all the romantic lines in the book, but it didn’t make him any less of an enigma. Being the stalker that he was, Frank was certain that Danny had a shit-ton of information about him already. </p>
<p>Frank wishes he knew who Danny’s first victim was. In his mind, somehow, that knowledge would level the playing field. Like if he could learn something so intimate about the other man— his deepest darkest secret— then he’d know he had Danny’s complete trust. And the other man would begin to let down the wall he clearly had around him. Hah. He wonders if that’s how his friends felt about him.</p>
<p>He washes up, follows the scent of the food to the tiny excuse of a kitchen.</p>
<p>“Morning, sunshine,” Danny greets him when he enters, “Took you long enough.”</p>
<p>The man was leaning against the counter, writing something down in that little black notebook of his. On top of the fold-out kitchen table, was a white take-out bag with Michelle's logo on it. Frank’s stomach rumbles. He peers into the bag, finding only one plastic container. He assumes the other ate already, pulls it out, and settles into the kitchen chair. </p>
<p>“You’re not writing about me, are you?” Frank asks half-jokingly, his mouth watering at the sight of breakfast food and it occurs to him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. “Morrison got up at twelve, seems his sleeping schedule is all sorts of fucked.”</p>
<p>“No,” Danny chuckles, not looking up from his book, “I only write about future victims.”</p>
<p>“Oh, wuh beking 'em tues date?” Frank asks through a big bite of pancake.</p>
<p>“Don’t talk with your mouth full of food, baby.”</p>
<p>Frank swallows. “We’re picking them today, right?’</p>
<p>“Actually,” Danny finally looks up at him, “I was thinking. You’ve done so well, maybe <i>you</i> should choose them.”</p>
<p>The dropout can’t help the pride that washes over him at the killer’s praise. “Me?”</p>
<p>“Not blindly, of course,” Danny goes on, “I have a few different options you can pick from.” With that, he breezes past Frank, stopping to place a hand on his shoulder. “Take your time, I’ll be back.”</p>
<p>“Uh,” Frank blinks up at him, “Where are you going?”</p>
<p>“Just meet me in the main room when you’re done,” Danny says, which does nothing to assure Frank, before he leaves. Frank debates getting up, following after him, but he doesn’t think he can out stalk the stalker. So instead, he pauses in his chewing, strains his ear. He can hear the front door close. And a few minutes later when Frank is nearly done, it reopens.</p>
<p>He gulps down a cup of water, throws away his empty container, and goes to meet Danny. Tucked under the man’s arm was a manila envelope that <i>definitely</i> hadn’t been in the room before. Danny gestures to the bed and Frank obediently plops down on its edge. Danny joins him and the two lounge comfortably as he begins to place down photo after photo in front of them.</p>
<p>Frank shivers in anticipation as he looks down at the photos. They were all of Ormond’s lovely citizens. Some faces he recognized, some he didn’t. And none of them seemed to be the wiser that someone had been trailing after them, snapping their picture as they went about their daily life. In total, there were seven different options.</p>
<p>Frank doesn’t even think he could begin to describe how fucking amazing it felt, suddenly having all these lives in his hands. Suddenly being the one to decide their fate.</p>
<p>“You can ask me about any of them.” Danny’s gaze sweeps over the photos, a subtle fondness to his features. Frank had a feeling it was more from the memory of stalking rather than the actual people in them.</p>
<p>He dismisses the one farthest on the left off the bat, pushing it to the side. Danny smirks at that. It’d been of a chubby man, with dark hair and a full beard to match, debating between two different brands of milk at the grocery store. He knew him the moment he saw him: Mr. Bennett, aka Susie’s old man. There was no point in going after someone so close to his friend, and besides— he wasn’t a bad dude, kind of stupid, but not bad.</p>
<p>One by one, he takes away the victims. Some through his own judgment, some only after learning more about them through Danny. Either he felt they would be too easy or felt like they wouldn’t be missed, which were probably good things, but he was itching for a challenge. He settles on two photos: one of an older man pushing his fifties and a younger man, college-aged.</p>
<p>The first was Arnold Edment, forty-seven (“though, it’s his birthday next week”). He owned the local bookstore, which would probably be a snoozefest in of itself, but the man seemed to be rather popular with the locals. When Frank argues that he never heard of him, Danny asks him when the last time he entered a bookstore was. Fair enough. Either way, the man seemed to be in good shape, like he would still try to fight for his life.</p>
<p>The younger man was named Gage Preston. Twenty-four. In his photo, he was with a group of friends at the bar Clive frequented. Even in the group, he stood out. He had that presence, Frank could tell, that could dominate a room. He was well-built, mid-length bright blond hair and blue eyes. Dressed in a crewneck sweater and tan pants. </p>
<p>According to Danny, he used to play ice hockey back at university. He was now back home, having dropped out, training to be a firefighter. What Frank heard was: he could pick a fight, give a good chase.</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” Danny asks when Frank made his choice, “This guy won’t be like the Sullivans, you know.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Frank retorts, meeting the man’s eyes, “I’m not afraid of a challenge.”</p>
<p>Danny looks more than pleased with that. “Then the game’s on.” He gathers up the rest of the photos and places them back into the envelope, which is then set on the bedside dresser. “Truthfully, I haven’t stalked him as much as I’d like. But it shouldn’t be a problem. We have time.”</p>
<p>“Cool. By the way,” Frank pinches the corner of the photograph in his hand, having Preston face Danny. “I now know more about this dumb fuck than I do about you.”</p>
<p>Frank did not attempt to hide the bitterness that laced his words and the serial killer is quick to catch it. Danny gives him a lazy, drawn-out smile as he turns back to him. “Well, ask away. I’m an open book.”</p>
<p>Wait, what? <i>It couldn’t just be that easy, could it?</i> Frank narrows his eyes in suspicion, trying to gauge any amount of mischief on the other’s face. But there’s nothing obvious. Danny is relaxed, pressing his back against the pillows with one knee drawn up. He has the opportunity now, he <i>should</i> seize it, but he finds himself tongue-tied.</p>
<p>“Don’t be shy,” Danny drawls, though there’s the faintest impatience tinging his tone. “Share with the class.”</p>
<p>He decides to start with something easy: “How old are you, anyway?” He passes the photo to Danny.</p>
<p>“Twenty-seven,” Danny answers with ease. Frank nods thoughtfully as he did the mental math. That was a difference of… what? Seven or eight years? He always knew the other man was older and that never really bothered him. Actually, it was… <i>sort</i> of cool to know he’d manage to capture his attention. Not that he’d ever say that aloud.</p>
<p>At Frank’s silence, Danny continues: “Know what? I’ll even throw in a little bonus. I’m a Scorpio. Our signs are compatible, funnily enough.”</p>
<p>That makes Frank laugh. “You actually believe in that shit?”</p>
<p>“No, no,” Danny laughs with him, placing Preston’s photo back with the rest of them. “Of course not. But it’s always fun to see what people will mindlessly believe. It’s just some little old lady making up whatever shit comes to her mind, but morons eat it up.”</p>
<p>Feeling more at ease, Frank leans forward. “Alright then. Next question.” He thinks for a moment. “Is ‘Danny’ your real name?”</p>
<p>“Daniel, actually,” Danny admits, “But if you call me that, I’ll cut out your tongue.” There was no real bite or threat to his words, but Frank figures it’s not worth the risk. It didn’t seem to fit Danny anyway.</p>
<p>“Wasn’t planning to.” With that, Frank decides to move on. “Then…” His voice drops to a mimic of Ghostface’s rasp, though it’s not as intimidating or gravelly. <i>“What’s your favorite scary movie?”</i></p>
<p>Danny seems to light up, most likely from the question rather than the botched impression. “Halloween.”</p>
<p>“Which one?”</p>
<p>He snorts, almost like he’s <i>offended</i> by the question. “The first one, obviously. Sequels are absolute garbage. By definition alone, sequels are inferior films.”</p>
<p>Frank clicks his tongue, caring less about the other’s heated opinion than his obvious hypocrisy. “And you shit-talked me picking <i>Hellraiser?”</i></p>
<p>“What can I say?” Danny’s eyelids droop, his expression becoming unreadable once more. Frank shuffles slightly, letting himself become more comfortable. “You gotta admire Michael. No emotion, no hesitation. Just goes after people because he can. He’s not the embodiment of evil for nothing.”</p>
<p>“I think that’d be boring,” Frank counters. Danny tilts his head back, glancing down at him. Frank returns his look with a shrug. “If there’s no thrill, what’s the point?”</p>
<p>“True,” Danny hums, drumming his fingers on his knee. “But he’s still fascinating, wouldn’t you say?”</p>
<p>Frank snorts. “He got his ass kicked by a babysitter.”</p>
<p>“You shit-talking my choice in film?” Danny asks like it’s a joke. But the aggravation was thinly laced. It was a warning, of sorts, and Frank knew he was beginning to press him too far. Normally he’d only push it more, but he was finally getting some answers about the other man and he just couldn’t let that go to waste.</p>
<p>“No,” Frank replies with a smirk, leaning forward. “I’m saying we’re better. We’ve never been caught.”</p>
<p>Danny grins at him, clearly pleased by the answer. Frank can’t help but snag a kiss, which the other man reciprocates, before he pulls back. It was beginning to get easier to know what to say to keep his partner in good spirits, which could <i>definitely</i> be useful for later.</p>
<p>“Next question?” He asks tentatively, to which Danny returns with a small “mhm”.</p>
<p>Amongst the ones running through his head, there was only one that kept clawing at him, begging to escape. The one that intrigued him the most. The one that would make them more even. Though Danny seemed like he was keen on answering any question, he wasn’t sure whether he’d be willing to answer this one. But he wasn’t going to back out. Like Frank said, he wasn’t afraid of a challenge.</p>
<p>So he looks him straight in the eye and asks: “What was your first murder like?”</p>
<p>He expects the other man to grow quiet or hesitant, but Danny doesn’t seem to be at all surprised by the question. In fact, his grin grows even wider. He sees it then, sees the predator that rested beneath the mask of all his aliases. It was absolutely fascinating.</p>
<p>“Finally,” he says with a delight that makes a shiver run up Frank’s spine, “You’re asking the <i>fun</i> questions.”</p>
<p>Frank’s heart pounds with anticipation and he decides he’d kill for a cigarette right about now. Anything to distract him from the childish way he’s feeling— like he’s around a campfire, about to listen to a ghost story. Before he’s able to react, the older man takes his wrists and brings him forward until Frank’s against his chest. </p>
<p>Frank’s breath hitches, pressing his ear closer to his warmth to hear how Danny’s own heartbeat is just a bit faster than normal. Was it because of Frank? Or was it because of the memory of the murder? They stay like that, for a moment, before Frank realizes what the other wants. He turns, pressing his back against him, and Danny rewards this by wrapping his arms around him. It’s a loose hold, not at all constricting, and Frank feels no urge to escape it.</p>
<p>Danny noses the top of his hair, breathing in contently.</p>
<p>“I was younger than you are,” the man begins, voice low and husky, “Seventeen.”</p>
<p>Frank closes his eyes, lets the darkness flood his vision. It’s hard to picture the man as younger and inexperienced, though as Danny continues, he begins to form a mental image of what the other was like. Shit, he wasn’t a reporter for looks. The man knew how to weave a story:</p>
<p>“I was a senior in high school then. Funnily enough, I was the photographer for the school newspaper. You would think that’d make me easy pickings for some pig-headed jock, but I wasn’t some nerd. I wasn’t popular either. I was just sort of there in the background. Going through the motions. That’s how I lived most of my life, honestly. Just an average kid, dreaming of the day he could escape Bumfuck, Utah.”</p>
<p>“Until…?”</p>
<p>“Until one night in the middle of autumn. I was coming home late from a football game, one of the last of the season. It was boring, uneventful. The away team won. As I’m walking down the street, I see this lady. Couldn’t be much older than I am now. But she saw me coming, and she got scared. She starts walking faster. And at that point, I was just thinking about how funny that was. I wasn’t this bulky thug, I was just some teenager with a camera around his neck. But she was still scared of me.</p>
<p>I had to follow her. I just had to. It was like my body was moving on its own. We kept walking and she kept looking back, and all I could see was the fear in her pretty hazel eyes. And I felt exactly what you felt the night you attacked Fink.”</p>
<p>Danny’s voice is hitched with excitement and Frank feels it at this moment too. It courses through his veins like he just shot himself up with some drug. He leans his head back against the crook of Danny’s neck, his eyes blinking open halfway to see the man’s face. It’s an unbridled glee.</p>
<p>“Power, baby. Complete and absolute power. I trapped her in an alleyway. My dad gave me this little pocket knife for protection, so I pulled it out. She was in hysterics then, calling out: <i>‘Oh god, oh god! Someone! Please help me!’</i> But no one was around to save her. So I stabbed her. Over and over. It was messy, a terrible job for a first time. And after it was all said and done, there was a… serenity I’d never felt before.” He pauses. “Then, I threw her in the dumpster and went home like nothing ever happened.”</p>
<p>Frank pictures the teenage Danny covered in blood, looking at his stained hands with complete and utter indifference. It must have been much different from the way Frank looked the night of Fink’s death. “Your… Your parents didn’t know?”</p>
<p>“Hmm, well,” Danny thinks for a moment, “I was always the perfect little angel in their eyes. As far as parents go, they weren’t bad at all. Never enforced a curfew, gave me a good allowance,” he chuckles, “But I couldn’t afford to have loose ends. I couldn’t afford to let them start catching on. So I killed them a few months later. That was the first Ghostface crime. Poor orphan Danny. All alone in the world. You should have seen the fundraiser they threw for me.”</p>
<p>Frank never gave a fuck about his absentee parents, but he can’t help but find himself wondering. In another life, if he had known who they were, would he have been able to get rid of them as unceremoniously as Danny spoke? Or was it possible that the killer was disguising his feelings with some carefree attitude?</p>
<p>He has to know. “Do you regret it?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Danny replies, in a wistful tone he’s never heard before. He looks thoughtful. “I probably could have given them a few more cuts.”</p>
<p>Frank scoffs, but the man’s quiet words feel so heavy in his chest. Frank didn’t feel more in control for having learned this secret. Just the opposite. He had gotten rid of his parents with ease, and it sounded like he had a good relationship with them. Where did that leave Frank? Not for the first time, he wonders what would happen the day Danny felt like Frank was more trouble than he was worth.</p>
<p>The image of the costumed figure approaching him, knife in hand, and ready to kill, burns itself in his mind. <i>“Frankie boy,” Ghostface would croon, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”</i> Why did that excite him more than it terrified him?</p>
<p>“Anyways,” Danny remarks, back to his usual manner of speaking, “I think it’s only fair I get to ask the next question.”</p>
<p>Frank should have guessed he couldn’t just get something out of Danny without the other trying to get something in return. His stomach twists into a knot, and he thinks back to last night once more, worried that Danny would spring on a question like that on him again. <i>Where do you want to go? Have you thought about it some more?</i></p>
<p>“That’s fair,” Frank begrudgingly agrees.</p>
<p>“Are you a virgin?”</p>
<p>It takes Frank a moment for him to process what he just said. He moves away from the other’s hold, glaring daggers at him. <i>“The fuck?” </i></p>
<p>There’s none of that shit-eating amusement on the other man’s face. It’s mostly blank with the faintest curiosity. Danny isn’t at all fazed by the dropout’s angry outburst, like he hadn’t just bluntly asked such a <i>stupid question.</i> Frank scowls. “No, no I’m not.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Danny says, as casual as can fucking be, “But you’ve never fucked a guy before, is that it?” Frank doesn’t reply, but it seemed that the serial killer gauged his reaction and came to his own conclusion: “Do you even know how it works?”</p>
<p>“I’ve—” Frank begins, knowing he must be red as fuck right now. His skin feels like it’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire. “I’ve seen a porno once.”</p>
<p>That was back in freshman year when he had gone over to a friend’s house. The two of them had messed around and stolen some of his friend’s dad’s x-rated tapes. One of them had been an unmarked VHS. They’d only made it through a few minutes of the two men before they’d shut it off, awkwardly putting it back into its box.</p>
<p>“That’s not exactly the same thing,” Danny laughs and gently places a hand on Frank’s thigh. His voice becomes low, sultry, and it makes Frank’s dick twitch underneath his jeans. “But I could give you a hands-on demonstration if you want.”</p>
<p>Frank does want it.</p>
<p>He wants it very, very badly.</p>
<p>He’s wanted it ever since Ghostface kissed him, or perhaps even before. But then there’s those nerves again, just like last time, and for a second he wants to blab out some fake excuse again. Leave and never come back again. But fuck, then he remembers how enticing Danny had been before, how his kisses and touches felt against his skin and—</p>
<p>“Frank.”</p>
<p>Frank snaps out of his thoughts from the serious way Danny calls his name, realizes he was probably just sitting there like some fucking moron. The other man is studying him, leans in closer and he can’t even feel his heart from how fast it’s going. Softly, he continues: “Don’t you trust me?”</p>
<p>“Not as far as I can throw you,” Frank lies, his words coming out a mere whisper, and doesn’t move.</p>
<p>That elicits a quiet laugh from Danny. “Well, trust me with this.” He’s so close now, Frank can feel his breath dance on his lips. “Trust me to make you feel good.”</p>
<p>A moment between them passes. Frank can’t take his eyes off of Danny’s. They were a black hole, drawing him in and keeping him there. Maybe, just maybe, he could escape the thoughts that were still plaguing his mind and just… enjoy this.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Frank answers, shakily, less from the nerves and more from the arousal that was beginning to overtake him.</p>
<p>“Okay?” Danny mirrors. He smiles, that smile he had seen from Florida back in the cafe, the one that could make anyone melt at the sight of it.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Frank reaffirms, more confidently this time. Danny rewards him with a kiss then, not as rough as their usual ones, but at this moment he decides he likes this kind more. </p>
<p>The kiss becomes hungry, with both of them tasting all they can of each other. Danny grips the dropout’s shirt and the two pull apart so he can pull it over Frank’s head. He shivers, just for a moment, though he’s not sure if it’s from the cold caressing his bare skin. Their lips lock against one another once more as Danny grinds their growing bulges together and Frank moans against his teeth.</p>
<p>Once they pull apart, breathless, Frank meets Danny’s eyes. The pupils have blown, the greys vanishing and becoming almost pitch black. The other man moves off the bed after a quick peck.</p>
<p>Frank watches him quizzically, before Danny takes hold of his ankles, and drags him forward— not enough to hurt him but enough to bring him to the edge of the bed. Danny’s hands gently trail upwards and although Frank’s breath hitches when they trail over his growing bulge, the man continues his movements. Every glide of his fingertips leaves goosebumps in the wake of Frank’s skin.</p>
<p>“My photo didn’t do your tattoos justice,” Danny murmurs, admiring the human canvas. His hand follows the outline of the snake that went from his shoulder towards his chest. That’s right. He’d taken a picture of him, hadn’t he? It felt so long ago, back when they had first met up, back when Ghostface was some stranger in a mask.</p>
<p>Danny took his time, tracing each and every one of the tattoos that littered Frank’s body.  He isn’t content to just let his fingers do the work, tongue trailing across an eye that was tattooed over his heart. “Why do you have so many?”</p>
<p>Frank gives a little shrug, bashfully glancing to the side. “I just think they’re cool.”</p>
<p>“You don’t have to lie,” Danny returns, “You like the pain, don’t you, baby?” To prove his point, he nips the tattoo and Frank let out a little hiss, cocking his head back. “Thought so,” he purrs. Though the area reddens, there’s no blood drawn, and Danny snakes a hand around Frank’s neck. He drags him closer, leaning up to press their lips together once more.</p>
<p>“You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby,” Danny mumbles against his lips, “You’re so pretty, all decorated and all for me.”</p>
<p>The thought of being called pretty should anger Frank, but instead, it blooms a warmth in his stomach and Frank recognizes the feeling from their very first phone call: he once mistook it for fear, but now he knows. Now he knows. “Yeah?” He needs more of Danny’s praise and he’s five seconds from begging for it.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Danny’s voice is low, “I’ve been waiting for you all this time, baby. I just know you’re going to be worth the wait.” He moves away then, eyes falling back on his body.</p>
<p>“I think,” he says, taking hold of Frank’s left wrist and turning over his arm. “This one is my favorite.” He kisses the traditional dagger that decorated his forearm.</p>
<p>“Yeah, it would be,” Frank chuckles softly and Danny smiles into it, pressing one more kiss against his skin before the man gets on his knees. </p>
<p>
  <i>And holy shit.</i>
</p>
<p>That action alone, of having this powerful figure get down in front of him, sucks the air right out of him. The Ghost of Ormond, the man terrorizing this shitty town, was so close and so tangible and Frank has the urge to just— <i>touch him.</i> Make sure he was here, make sure this was for real. Frank tangles his fingers into the man’s hair, and despite their greasy look, it’s soft to the touch.</p>
<p>Danny hums at Frank’s boldness, too preoccupied with unbuttoning Frank’s jeans to look up at him. It’s only a moment later before his pants are snaked around his ankles, followed by his underwear, and Frank swallows thickly. He’s never… he’s never shown himself to someone so intimately before— usually, they were quick clothed fucks or blowjobs in his car and he’s never been one to be self-conscious about his appearance, but the way Danny doesn’t move, just <i>watches,</i> makes him nervous.</p>
<p>“Danny…?” He probes, and this seems to bring the man back to life.</p>
<p>“You have more,” Danny sounds downright delighted, eyes snaking over the various little tattoos on the lower half of his body. He brushes his hand on one to the side of his knee. “Hmm. This one’s my <i>least</i> favorite.”</p>
<p>Frank doesn’t blame him. It was of a shittily done UFO that had the words “Believe, Bitch!” on top of it. He got it when he smashed and one of his old friends offered to do a stick and poke. Still, just having Danny disapprove of it makes Frank want to cut it off his skin himself. </p>
<p>“Sorry,” he mutters, even though he really has nothing to apologize for.</p>
<p>“That’s alright. We can always get it removed later.” Danny laughs breezily, focusing his attention back on his prize.</p>
<p>Frank’s cock was already standing at attention, as eager as its owner to receive. Danny hums, mouthing the tip of it, earning a stifled whimper from Frank. “You want me to make you feel good, don’t you, baby?” Danny asks, one hand already curled around the shaft.</p>
<p>Frank lets out a throaty “uh-huh” which makes Danny tsk.</p>
<p>“Use your words, baby.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, <i>yeah,</i> I wanna feel good,” Frank breathes out, amazed that he even managed any words at all.</p>
<p>“That’s my good boy.” Danny praises and Frank’s just about to die as Danny wraps his lips around his head fully, giving the slit an experimental lick that makes Frank’s leg bounce.</p>
<p>Frank forces a whimper to die in his throat because he’s <i>not</i> about to do that. Not even as Danny bobs his head up and down and pumps his hand up and down simultaneously. To better keep the dropout still, Danny’s other hand grips his hip and a cry escapes his throat before he can stop it. Danny’s fingers dig in, like a predator latched onto its prey, and the bruises that had been left from the last encounter burst into a new pain that causes a rush of adrenaline and pleasure through him.</p>
<p>He forces himself into breathless pants, his chest rising and falling along with the other man’s movements.</p>
<p>Danny, perhaps frustrated by the silence, gives one last suck before he moves away. Frank’s cock has bloomed, red and crying from the sudden loss of stimulation. Frank begins to protest, but he’s cut off by Danny: “Let me hear you, baby boy.”</p>
<p>“Nngh,” Frank tries to argue, his voice strained, <i>“Your neighbor…”</i></p>
<p>Danny seems genuinely confused, the pumping of his hand turning into lazy strokes that do nothing more than taunt and tease the dropout. “My neighbor?”</p>
<p>Frank can’t believe he has to remind Danny at a time like this. “N-next door, the… the mpft, do not disturb sign…”</p>
<p>Although Frank was only speaking nonsense, Danny seems to be able to decipher it. The room next to theirs always seemed to be locked and occupied. “Oh,” Danny ceases in his movements, thinking, and this causes Frank to unconsciously jerk himself into Danny’s hand. “Well,” The other man’s eyes become half-lidded then, “I want them to hear you too.”</p>
<p>“I… I…” Frank pants, eyes darting towards the wall.</p>
<p>“Come on,” Danny croons, returning to his languish movements, “You’re so fucking sexy, I want them to know who you belong to. Do it for me, baby.”</p>
<p>Although Frank doesn’t reply, Danny returns his lips to his cock, and the dropout lets out an unbridled moan as the other man begins to suck him off once more. Danny rewards this by moving his hand from his hip to giving Frank’s balls a squeeze. Frank can no longer keep himself propped up, so he untangles himself from Danny’s hair and falls back onto the bed from the overstimulation.</p>
<p><i>“Danny, Danny,”</i> Frank is crying out his name like a prayer as the man continues to consume him whole and his mind feels woozy like he’s drunk too much, like he’s blacking in and out. <i>“Fuck, Danny!”</i></p>
<p>“That’s it,” Danny murmurs against his cock, kissing the side of it. It twitches from the contact, pre-cum drooling out of the slit. “That’s right, baby. You sound so good for me. <i>Such a good boy.”</i></p>
<p>Frank can’t take much more, can’t take the way Danny continues to expertly handle his cock, better than anyone he’s ever had, oh god, oh fuck, god. He’s seeing stars and he seizes up and Danny knows he’s about to cum so he takes the boy back in his mouth and he orgasms and calls out his partner’s name once more, and it’s like one of his murders— holy shit, he’s never felt so fucking good and alive <i>in his life.</i></p>
<p>Danny holds him in his mouth, lets Frank ride out the orgasm, pulls off the boy when he’s sure he’s finished. He takes a second to spit out Frank’s seed in the nearby trash can, which would offend him had it been anyone else. Or if he was in anything but a blissful state. </p>
<p>Danny meets the dazed boy on the bed. He kisses his lips, a lazy little peck at first, and when they part Frank swipes his tongue over his lip. He’s never tasted himself before. That… that wasn’t something he had ever <i>planned</i> to do, but it wasn’t as bad as he would have guessed. </p>
<p>“You sounded so fucking amazing, baby. I’m so proud of you,” Danny whispers against his lips, and even through his fading high, Frank feels his words in his very core. He kicks off the last stragglers of his clothing that caught themselves in his ankles.</p>
<p>The two move in unison, with Danny guiding them, until Frank’s back is against the headrest. They kiss once more, deeply this time, and Frank paws at Danny’s shirt.</p>
<p>“I want to see you,” Frank tells him as they part, “I want to see all of you.”</p>
<p>Danny chuckles, throaty and rough, as he rises. He’s straddling Frank, knees on either side of him. “Well, who am I to deny you?” He pulls back, tugging off his black shirt with practiced ease. Frank’s snarky little retort (which he promises was great) gets caught in his throat.</p>
<p>It was almost a crime in and of itself that the killer hid behind layers of clothing when dressed as Ghostface or Florida. He’s as muscled as Frank expected him to be, but what catches his interest is <i>the scars.</i> Some were so faded, they were almost invisible against his skin, but others were more prominent. He wasn’t lying when he said people fought back, but each scar tells a story of a victim, of a murder, and that’s fucking enticing all by itself.</p>
<p>Danny cocks his head a little, smugly. The bastard <i>knew</i> Frank was awestruck. “Like what you see?” He had the audacity to say it in that familiar rasp.</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” Frank tries to sound like he couldn’t care less, but it’s really fucking hard at the moment because all he wants to do is kiss every single one of those scars. Danny just laughs.</p>
<p>“I mean,” Danny says, casually, like he’s not in the middle of taking off his remaining clothes, <i>“I could.”</i></p>
<p>“I’ll literally kill you.”</p>
<p>“Promise?” Danny asks with a cheeky grin, and Frank shoots him a glare. “Alright, alright.” He pushes his clothes carelessly off the bed, allowing the dropout to take him in fully. Frank hadn’t seen too many other dicks outside gym locker rooms, so he really doesn’t have much of a comparison. Still, the other man is longer and a bit thicker than him, and that’s kind of a sting to his pride. </p>
<p>It was already erect and Frank’s sort of just. Fascinated by it. Danny leans in, about to kiss his jawline, when Frank stops him with a gentle hand on his chest. “Wait, um.”</p>
<p>The older male doesn’t say anything for a long moment, his lips still ghosting his skin. Finally, he asks in a measured voice: “Yeah? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“Nothing, I uh...” Frank’s other hand moves on its own accord, down to Danny’s member. He wraps an uncertain hand around it, gives it a quick stroke that makes Danny let out an uncontrolled breathy huff. Oh. He likes that noise. “I just want to make you feel good too.”</p>
<p>“Mm,” Danny responds as Frank gives another inexperienced pump.</p>
<p>“Okay, great.” Frank’s about to stroke him again when Danny gently moves his hand off him.</p>
<p>“Actually, baby,” Danny regained his composure. He kisses Frank on the lips, watches him through with half-lidded eyes, and in a low voice goes on: “If that’s the case, I’d really rather prefer me in your mouth.”</p>
<p>Frank expects himself to be repulsed, but he finds himself buzzing with excitement. Still, there’s a bit of a problem with what the other man requested of him. He swallows, eying his dick critically. “I’ve uh, never—”</p>
<p>“Obviously. But that’s alright,” Danny cuts in, reverent, “Because you were saving yourself for me, weren’t you?” And he says it in such an assured manner, that damn if for a moment Frank believes that it’s true. </p>
<p>“Then…” He considers for a moment, “Then, I want you under me,” Frank boldly tells him. Danny’s eyebrow cocks at that. “Because if I’m gonna blow you, then <i>I</i> want to be on top.”</p>
<p>“Whatever you want,” Danny’s voice is dripping with desire, but there’s an underlying playfulness to it. Like he’s enjoying this new game of theirs. “You’re in charge now, baby boy.”</p>
<p>And Frank’s cock, which had already begun to stir back to life, twitches with response to the man’s words. Danny’s smile seems to grow, clearly having noticed. With that, Frank grips his shoulder a little harder than he intends to and pushes the killer on his back. He knows that Danny is allowing him this, but it still felt so <i>fucking incredible</i> to watch the man lay down for him. </p>
<p>Frank shifts so he’s in between Danny’s legs and lowers himself down, parting his lips and tentatively mouthing the head. He wasn’t completely stupid, he thinks of the various blowjobs he’s gotten in his life, drags his tongue down the underside of Danny’s cock.</p>
<p>“Mm, well shit. You might just be a natural, baby.” Danny breathes out.</p>
<p>“I’ll add that to my resume,” Frank mumbles against his skin, planting kisses upwards before he takes the tip of it entirely into his mouth. He sucks at it, just to test, and earns a pleased sigh from Danny that causes Frank to feel his own wave of pleasure. He continues to bob his head up and down, pressing one hand down on Danny’s thigh to keep himself steady.</p>
<p>“That’s it, baby.” Danny purrs.</p>
<p>Sort of like Icarus flying too close to the sun, the dropout gets a bit too enthusiastic upon hearing that, and he pushes forward like he’s seen Julie do, trying to fit as much of the other killer as he can.</p>
<p>He’s quick to gag.</p>
<p>Danny laughs at that and though it’s not malicious, Frank still feels a bit embarrassed. He’s about to pull off his dick when the killer reaches up, gently weaves his fingers into blond locks. He eases him up, but doesn’t allow Frank to completely dislodge himself. Frank says something, though it’s completely muffled.</p>
<p>“Ssh,” Danny whispers, “Don’t worry, silly boy. You’re still learning. And you’re doing wonderful.”</p>
<p>Frank hesitates for a moment, peers up at Danny. The man is watching him with satisfaction, a lazy smirk drawn upon his features, and he sees it in his eyes: <i>Mine,</i> they’re saying, <i>all mine.</i> When he doesn’t move, Danny pushes him down a bit and Frank gets the memo. He continues to please the other man, tongue lapping at the skin. The serial killer never makes the dropout choke, never pushes him too far, and when Frank needs to breathe, Danny moves him off his cock.</p>
<p>Danny is singing him such lovely reassurance that it makes Frank only want to work harder, be better. He wants the other man to love this, he wants to be good for him. Praise him more, tell him how good he was. He didn’t know how badly he wanted it until he received it. Each noise the man lets out is better than any song on Frank’s favorite mix-tape.</p>
<p>“I’ve never wanted to fuck you more,” Danny hisses, releasing Frank from his hold. The dropout pulls off his cock with a <i>pop,</i> a strand of pre-cum still dribbling from his lips. He wipes it off with his wrist.</p>
<p>“Then do it,” Frank breathes out, his own member aching for Danny’s touches once more. His chest rises and falls as his lungs try to desperately try to snag air. “Fuck me.”</p>
<p>Danny sits up, some of his hair falling over his face. He blows it off to the side. “Is that really how you ask for things?” He scolds, his voice rough from desire rather than anger. “Where are your manners?”</p>
<p>“Fuck me…” Frank thinks. “Please?”</p>
<p>The serial killer tsks and waggles his finger tauntingly. “You can do better than that.”</p>
<p><i>“Motherfucker,”</i> Frank mumbles under his breath, before batting his eyelids and exaggeratingly begging: “Oh please, please give it to me!” He throws back his head. “I can’t wait any longer!”</p>
<p>Danny snorts, eyes downcast towards the sneering skull tattoo. “You’re such a little shit.” He pins Frank back down against the pillows. His eyes flicker up to meet Frank’s. “We should probably have a safe word.”</p>
<p>“A safe word?” Frank scoffs and rolls his eyes. “I’m not a pussy.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I know you’re not,” Danny chuckles, with a roll of his shoulders. “But I’d rather we both enjoy this.” He rubs his cock against Frank’s to prove his point, causing the dropout to stifle a moan. It comes out as a whimper that makes Frank inwardly cringe. </p>
<p>“So just, pick a word. If you don’t need it, that’s more than fine.”</p>
<p>“Uh… Stop?”</p>
<p>Danny hums. “Think a little outside the box.”</p>
<p>And with that snide remark, Frank thinks of the perfect one. He flashes Danny a smug little smile. “Florida.” Danny raises an eyebrow at the jab towards his other persona, but he just kisses that look off Frank’s face instead.</p>
<p>“Florida it is,” Danny extends his arm, reaches over to the bedside drawer, and rummages around inside a bit before he pulls out a small bottle of lube. It was almost half empty and Frank knows it’s stupid, but a spike of jealousy spears his body at the mere thought that the other man had past… <i>partners.</i></p>
<p>Danny either doesn’t notice or doesn’t make mention of this, instead gently squeezing the bottle and coating his fingers with a generous amount of it before he tosses the bottle to the side of him.  “You’re gonna take this real well, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>Frank’s eyes are locked onto Danny’s fingers, and he nearly cums at the mere thought of just having them inside him. “Yeah,” he says softly, his hips canting towards Danny’s hand as it begins to circle his entrance. It was an entirely new type of sensation, cold fingers against him, teasing his hole.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yeah, I will, please, Danny.”</i>
</p>
<p>Danny quietly laughs and Frank guesses it’s from the hypocrisy of his fake begging, but he doesn’t think about it too long. Because the other man doesn’t wait another moment, sliding in a finger. <i>“Oh fuck.”</i> Frank hisses out.</p>
<p>“Relax, sweetheart,” Danny purrs, watching with shameless lust as Frank arches his back forwards in an effort to meet Danny’s body. “That’s it.” He allows Frank time to adjust before the second one enters. It was a strange fullness, but it wasn’t as uncomfortable as he thought it’d be.</p>
<p>As Danny continues to work the dropout’s entrance, inserting the last finger, he dips his head down onto Frank’s stomach.</p>
<p>And without a warning—</p>
<p><i>“Fuck!”</i> Frank gasps out as the teeth clench down on his skin, digging in and drawing blood. He grips the sheets tight, his knuckles nearly turning white. The pain shoots straight to his cock, causing it to leak more from the sheer arousal of the action. Danny sucks on the mark, leaving the dropout’s skin a pale crimson.</p>
<p>Danny isn’t content with just one claim to his prize, continuing to mark up Frank’s body. He’s not being shy either, leaving them on the dropout’s shoulder and his collarbone, and</p>
<p>“Wait,” Frank gasps out as he feels the beginning of teeth against his neck. And fuck, he really didn’t want the man to stop. “Wait, that’s too close, Danny. People will notice that.”</p>
<p>“Oh?” Danny whispers and he’s close enough to Frank’s ear that he hears it. “Good. I want them to notice.” </p>
<p>Before Frank can come up with all the reasons why that’s not a good thing, Danny’s fingertips brush against a sweet spot that makes Frank claw his hands into Danny’s back and squeezes his eyes shut with a loud moan.</p>
<p>As Frank’s seed spurts on their bodies, Danny bites down, causing him to tremble against his hold. Frank buries his head in the crook of Danny’s shoulder, allowing this because he’s so blissed the fuck out he’s not really thinking, he’s just focused on the high and it feels so so good like he’s on another plane of existence where it’s just him, him and Danny, and he’s still shaking and making noise and all he can hear is: “That’s right, my sweet boy, you’re mine, all mine.”</p>
<p>And all he can think is: <i>I’m his, I’m his.</i></p>
<p>It’s then that Danny removes his fingers and Frank whines at his sudden emptiness, but the other man is quick to lube up his cock. It was clear that Danny was done enjoying his appetizers and wanted to enjoy the main course.</p>
<p>He pulls Frank’s arms off him. “Lay back, baby. Let me take care of you.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” is all Frank can manage as he falls back once more. Danny smirks, gripping Frank’s ankles and pulling them up so they’re over the serial killer’s shoulders. The position was a little bit straining, but being the athlete that Frank was, it didn’t bother him.</p>
<p>“Now,” Danny positions himself against Frank, his tip kissing Frank’s entrance. Leisurely, he asks: “What <i>was</i> that safe word again?”</p>
<p>“Florida,” Frank croaks.</p>
<p>“Good boy.”</p>
<p>Danny somehow manages to keep himself restrained, though his face was no longer as composed as it normally was. He enters Frank slowly and when Frank throws his head to the side, he pauses. Frank had been stretched enough, but a cock was a lot different from three slender fingers.</p>
<p>Danny is gentle with his thrusts at first, whispering sweet nothings to Frank. The dropout is panting, overstimulated, but still desperately crying out the man’s name. It is only until Frank has gotten used to the shallow thrusts that Danny begins to pick up the pace.</p>
<p><i>“Ah!”</i> Frank cries out, <i>“Oh fuck, fuck!”</i></p>
<p>“That’s right,” Danny grunts, “You love this, don’t you? You love me inside you, sweet boy.”</p>
<p><i>“Yes!”</i> Frank shamelessly whines and that makes Danny go harder, rougher. He grips onto Frank tightly, as if making sure there was no chance for him to run away. </p>
<p>Their panting and noises are in sync with one another, and Frank, never one to back away from a challenge, gains confidence and rocks his hips to meet Danny’s movements. They continue to rut like that for a few vigorous minutes, almost animalistic in nature. Frank becomes unable to think about anything else other than the pleasure Danny was providing him, going limp against him.</p>
<p>Danny’s head droops as he begins to orgasm, his hair falling over his face, but his eyes lock onto Frank’s. It’s that look from before— the predator behind the mask. Frank’s legs are released, free to fall, and Danny wastes no time pressing his lips roughly against the dropout’s. It’s deep and full of all the words they can’t muster out.</p>
<p>The two stay interlocked for a long moment, basking in their euphoric afterglow, before Danny pulls out of him. Frank watches the man move to the side of the bed, and feels some of Danny’s cum leak out of him. Honestly? It feels kinda fucking weird. He takes a second to sit himself up, wincing a little.</p>
<p>Though he knows he’s probably a hot mess, he’s too tuckered out to do more than fumble for his carton of cigarettes on top of the bedside dresser, pulling one out and lighting it. Frank is only a few puffs in when Danny turns his head over his shoulder. </p>
<p>“There’s no smoking in the motel,” Danny chides in a rough whisper before he snags the lit cigarette and takes his own deep drag.</p>
<p>Frank responds with a fond smile.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">firstly, <b>this fic will be back 12.14.2020!</b> i know, sorry we're going on break again, but #justmentalhealththingz</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">so this chapter officially clocks out as my longest as of right now. my beta readers megidola, bwoo, and i were debating whether or not we should split this in two, but honestly- i have the rest of the chapters generally planned out (i figure out the details as i write them), so i don't want to add extra chapters unnecessarily. so from this moment on, if they run long they're gonna run long.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">this chapter is sort of a frankenstein's monster. danny's first murder came to me at around chapter five, the concept of their first time around chapter ten, and the beginning scene just a few days ago. it's pretty cool to see how they all managed to fit together, despite being thought of at completely different times. for this particular chapter, i wrote the middle section first and worked my way backwards before i got to the smut because-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">their first time took me the entire week to do lol, in bits and pieces here and there. i have two weaknesses in writing: transitions and smut. i've been practicing my transitions through this fic, which is why you've seen less line breaks in recent chapters. but smut? horse of an entirely different color. i just <i>really</i> wanted it to be worth the sixteen chapter wait, haha. i hope i succeeded at that end!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">(ps: frank's a cancer!)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted"><b>edit 12.05.20:</b> please check out gorgeous comic based on this chapter by <a href="https://twitter.com/sojuuboy">sojuuboy</a>: <a href="https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/754191364408737832/784978907455684628/image0.png">1</a> / <a href="https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/754191364408737832/784978915650175017/image0.png">2</a> (nsfw) !! im in love 💕<span class="noted"></span></span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. With Friends Like These...</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ghostface had sunk his claws deep into Ormond, a monster on the prowl and stalking his next kill. Unfortunately, that meant that the town was no longer the easy pickings it’d been in the beginning. The curfew ensured that everyone stayed indoors by nine, meaning that it was near impossible for Ghostface and Partner to find a time where Gage Preston <i>wasn’t</i> in his home. This wouldn’t necessarily be a big deal, but the college dropout lived in one of the cheaper neighborhoods: where the houses nearly touched side-by-side.</p><p>Ghostface and Partner had found a way to solve this particular problem, waiting until Gage Preston left his home at promptly five o’clock each morning for work. They entered his home thirty minutes later when they were certain he wasn’t going to return. The rest of the world hadn’t risen yet, but the two made quick work of their investigation. Partner, absolutely tuckered out by the end, was given one of Preston’s gold medals as a gift by Ghostface. </p><p>“Nothing he won’t miss,” Ghostface cheerily told him, “Our dumb jock has dozens of them.”</p><p>It had become obvious early on to the two of them that this kill couldn’t be another house murder. No. This had to be special. This one would need a bit more planning. <i>“After all, it’ll be our last farewell to Ormond.”</i> Ghostface’s rasp continued to replay in Partner’s head over and over— even after he’d gone home. It was Sunday, after all, and he had a playdate with the Legion.</p><p>Partner took off his smiling paper mask and became Frank Morrison once more.</p><p>Ghostface didn’t want Frank stalking around the day, said his tattoos made it too obvious. He would have disputed that, but McNamara’s taunting still felt fresh in his mind. He nearly went to jail because <i>one</i> person happened to see him and remember him. He’d never regret getting his tattoos, but he’d have to find a workaround for that.</p><p>… Well. Not that it'd matter anymore.</p><p>Frank fell back on his bed, holding up the gold medal by its red ribbon. It shone under his ceiling light, though not as brightly as the elephant. It was a first-place medal for a swimming meet, won by Preston when he was still in high school. Frank traces his name engraved onto the gold with the tips of his fingers. The guy seemed like the “peaked-too-soon” type, still clinging to his achievements even as his house was in a state of complete disarray. </p><p>It was laughable. He didn’t really think people like that existed, figured it was just some movie stereotype. Why would someone choose to stay in the past? The world wasn’t going to stop moving just because someone was too fixated on the things that came before. It was better to not look back, to just keep focused on what was happening now. Frank’s past loved to haunt him in the late hours of the night, when he couldn’t escape in any other way besides sleep.</p><p>He lets his hand fall, the medal resting on his chest. “A farewell to Ormond, huh?” Frank murmurs, too lost in thought to realize he voiced it. Frank still hadn’t told Danny he didn’t plan to join him on his next venture. He wasn’t sure why. He had plenty of chances to tell him during their night-stalks. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the other killer’s retaliation. Maybe it was because if he says it out loud, then it’d become real.</p><p>Frank awakens a quarter past twelve, irritated that he even dozed off. Part of him wants to phone Susie, ask her if they can reschedule, but shit. It wasn’t like he could hang out with Danny today— the killer had told him he was going to be busy with whatever plan he was working on. Besides,  it wasn’t a good idea to leave his friends to their own devices. It’d seemed like they had something up their sleeves last he and Susie spoke.</p><p>A quick shower later and he’s inspecting himself in the mirror. Frank grimaces, pressing his index finger down on the bruise that Danny had left on his neck. He lets out a quiet hiss of pain as he presses down harder. It was fading, finally. They’ve fucked a few times now, and he had become a lot more strict about where Danny put his little ‘love marks’. <i>“Fucking asshole,”</i> he grumbles.</p><p>It’d been so prominent and rather embarrassing to walk around with. He’d taken to wearing his hoodies in order to cover it up and for once he was grateful that Ormond weather never got too warm. </p><p>This was fine at work since the customers didn’t come too close to him, but he doubted that the Legion wouldn’t notice. He groans, decides to just slip on the dark turtleneck he wore earlier, and throw his varsity jacket over it. It wasn’t <i>exactly</i> in-character for him to wear, but it was better than having a million questions about how he got a fucking hickey. </p><p>But he might as well have just gone and worn a regular shirt because the second Julie slides into his front passenger seat she immediately remarks: “Why are you dressed like such a geek?”</p><p>“My other clothes were dirty.” Frank hopes that’s enough for her not to press further. She’s still eying his neck critically but shrugs. </p><p>“Whatever. Do I get to pick the music?”</p><p>Luckily for Frank, this time she decides not to torture him and chooses one of Joey’s mixtapes. The junior didn’t have <i>completely</i> garbage taste, but it was definitely more chart-topping than Frank preferred. It’s a bit of a drive, but he picks up Joey and then Susie. Although they make no mention of his turtleneck, he could feel their eyes burning onto his neck. It makes him itchy, makes him dig his fingers under the fabric and scratch his neck.</p><p>Was it just his car or was the air so fucking stuffy? Besides their hellos and a few dead-end statements about Frank’s driving, the other Legion members hadn’t said much. Frank takes a second to crank down his window a bit, hoping to release whatever it was that was causing such tension. Why should <i>he</i> have to be the one to start a conversation? He wasn’t the one that invited them all out. Besides the song playing, there is only quiet. And he fucking decides that he hates it.  Though he knows the Legion knows the lyrics, no one is singing along:</p><p>
  <i>/I want something else to get me through/</i>
</p><p>
  <i>/This semi-charmed kind of life, baby/</i>
</p><p>“So,” Frank glances up at the rearview mirror, meets the big blue eyes behind him. “What do you have to get?”</p><p>“Oh!” Susie blinks as if surprised that he had spoken up. Her eyes shift to the side window as if she doesn’t want to look at him. It was a big change from the last time they had spoken. <i>Why?</i> His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “Um…”</p><p>“Since,” he continues conversationally, “Didn’t you say you had to get supplies for your dance?”</p><p>“Decorations,” Susie says, lamely, and nods her head assuredly. Like she was convincing herself more than him. More confidently, she continues: “I can get whatever I want, as long as it looks spooky.”</p><p>Frank cocks an eyebrow at the vague shopping list. “Okay.”</p><p>The drive continues for a bit, back to the silence, before Joey pipes up: “Hey... you guys remember when we dared Julie to ask out that dude from Radioshack?”</p><p>Susie giggles into her palm, while Julie pulls a face. “Oh my gosh, yeah!” The blue-haired girl reaches over, pokes the blonde’s shoulder. “He was <i>so</i> into you.”</p><p>“I honestly thought Frank was gonna kick his ass,” Joey chuckles, scratching the top of his head.</p><p>Frank quirks a smile as Julie glares over her shoulder. “I didn’t think he was actually going to say <i>yes.” </i></p><p>“Don’t put yourself down like that,” Frank teases, “You’re hot as fuck, he’d be stupid to say no.”</p><p>Susie sits back, glancing over at their leader. Julie shoves him, not all too gently. He laughs, more from relief than anything else. <i>“Shut up!</i> He was totally lame. What movie did he want to take me to..?”</p><p>“Romeo and Juliet,” Joey reminds her.</p><p>“Romeo and fuckin’ Juliet!” Julie scoffs, twirling a lock of her blonde hair. “Can you believe it? What kind of girl did he take me for?”</p><p>“We should go,” Frank turns his attention back to the road. “We should see if he’s working.”</p><p>“I’ll literally kill you,” Julie snaps. </p><p>Frank tenses momentarily, expecting her playful threat to cause the odd atmosphere to return. But it doesn’t. The rest of the Legion continue to joke and banter with her, and he’s left watching them in the mirror. His smile fades. He thinks back to climbing Julie’s window, to the three of them discussing The Frosted Man. Back then, the mere thought of them hanging out without their leader present pissed him off.</p><p>Now it leaves him feeling a little bit… His hands grip the wheel tighter and he decides it's time to think about something else.</p><p>As they continue to talk about their previous other visits to the mall, his mind wanders to Danny. He was probably stalking Preston right about now, wasn’t he? He can picture him now: oversized clothing and slicked-back hair. Watching the college dropout while hiding in plain sight. Maybe he’d be bold— bump into Preston, give him a fake smile and apology. </p><p>
  <i>“Oh, I’m so s-sorry!” Florida would say, adjusting his glasses. “I h-hope I didn’t hurt you…”</i>
</p><p>It sends a shiver up Frank’s spine. And Preston would shrug it off, not think about it, never become aware that he had just been in the presence of his murderer. God, Frank wishes he could have gone with the reporter. Maybe after they’d finish… they could have gone back to Danny’s motel room… Put on a scary movie in the background…</p><p>“Hellooo, earth to Frank?”</p><p>Frank blinks out of his thoughts as a hand waves in front of his face. “Huh?”</p><p>He glances at Julie, who’s all smiles, as she drops her hand and rests it on his thigh. “Can you <i>please</i> tell these losers that we’re going together? I told them yesterday and they didn’t believe me!”</p><p>“Get real. Frank isn’t a dance kind of guy!” Joey argues, though there’s no bite to his words.</p><p>He racks his brain, pushes past the events of the past few weeks to the drive with Julie. Oh yeah. He <i>had</i> asked her to the dance, hadn’t he? “Like I’m not going to support Susie.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Julie says teasingly, batting her eyelashes, <i>“Just</i> to support Sus, huh?”</p><p>Frank laughs and averts his eyes. She’d always been a big flirt and it would have worked on him once upon a time. Now, it just made him somewhat sheepish. “Well…”</p><p>When his eyes shift to the mirror, he pauses. Was it just him <i>or…?</i> He blinks and Susie’s not even looking at him. But he could have sworn he had seen her eyes narrowed, ablaze with something he didn’t recognize in her.</p><p>“Well, what?” Julie gives a little huff and Joey laughs.</p><p>Frank just shrugs, eyes still on the mirror. Distractedly, he says: “Nothing, nothing.” This earns him a punch to the shoulder, but nothing else comes from the conversation. </p><p>The drive continues, but he notes that Susie is no longer joining in on their chatter: her head’s turned towards the window and she seems too lost in whatever it was she was thinking about. Normally, that wouldn’t even be a big issue, but for some reason… </p><p>It twists his stomach into a knot.</p><p>Fairfield Mall was located just a bit outside of Calgary, but unlike Frank’s gas station, was always filled with an abundance of people. It being a Sunday afternoon meant that was even more true than usual— he has to drive up and down the parking garage twice in order to find an available parking space. Normally, this would have excited him. Back when the Legion would still push one another to steal, having more eyes be potential witnesses made it all the more dangerous. But now, it was nothing more than frustrating.</p><p>The four of them climb out of Frank’s beat-up silver car and Joey does the honors of pushing open the glass doors. It’s like entering a brand new world— the pop music blaring from the speakers mix with the chatter of people all around them. The mall is vibrant, with checkered tile and white walls but each store has an eye-catching paint job to lure in customers. There are decorations aplenty: potted plants, colorful signage hanging, a big fountain in the very middle.</p><p>To the four teenagers stuck in Ormond, it was like a trip to Disneyland. </p><p>Whatever bugged him in the car hadn’t followed him here. Julie takes the lead, with Joey following after. Frank’s about to begin walking when Susie gently tugs his arm. “Frank?” Frank turns to her, surprised to have her call his name. “The… the turtleneck.” He can tell she was struggling to ask her question. “Um, where did you get it?”</p><p>A wave of confusion washes over him, but he plays it off with a grin. “Why? You want your own?”</p><p>“N-no,” she glances down at her shoes and answers with a mumble, “It just doesn’t <i>seem</i> like you, is all.” Before he can ask what the fuck that was suppose to mean, she lets him go and follows after their friends. Frank isn’t too keen on being left behind and is quick to catch up with them.</p><p>“What’s the first stop?” Julie asks Frank as he meets her shoulder-to-shoulder.</p><p>It was nice to be making the decisions again, even if it was something as trivial as picking a store. He loved hanging around Danny, but he mostly just followed the other’s lead when it came to their crimes. With the Legion, he was rightfully back to being on the top of the pyramid. He decides on Sears, a bit pricey, but it tends to have a random assortment of junk that Susie might find inspirational.</p><p>The best part of entering any store was the dirty looks the employees gave, annoyed over seeing a couple of mallrats instead of actual customers. Frank contents himself goofing off with Julie and Joey while Susie browses the merchandise, and maybe she’s just focused on her search, but she barely says a word to him. </p><p>She ends up picking out a few dolls left in the clearance section, shrugs, and says: “I’ll decapitate them and string them up.” Frank’s a little spooked by how easily that comes to her, but he’s pleased that she was able to find something on his first pick. He offers to take the bag from her, but she tells him <i>it’s fine, don’t worry.</i> She even smiles at him, though it’s trying way too hard.</p><p>The four of them continue their adventure through the stores, whether going in them or just window shopping. There’s a few times where Frank’s hand just… itches to take something and stuff it into his pocket. But he resists the urge. It would be stupid to avoid getting charged with murder, just to get charged for shoplifting. </p><p>It’s only when they take a break at the food court, a few hours later, does Frank start to feel like something was… <i>off</i> about this whole thing. He’s noticed it since Joey first broke the ice in the car, but hadn’t thought much about it. It’s when Julie is in the middle of recounting the story of when they snuck into an R-rated film that it occurs to him again.</p><p>None of them had said anything about what was currently going on in their life. Frank, of course, had a reason to not talk about what was going on. But the others? Almost every single conversation had started with some variant of “Remember when…” and Frank is biting into his pretzel, simultaneously annoyed and startled by the revelation.</p><p>When had they all turned into Gage Preston, stuck in the past? There had been no talk about Joey’s latest artwork, or Julie’s work, or Susie’s committee. Hell, Susie hadn’t said more than a few words here or there. Wasn’t this whole thing <i>her</i> idea? She had been so excited last he saw her, feeding him things about how it wouldn’t be fun without him— now, it was like she’d prefer to be anywhere but here.</p><p>All of this felt so fake.</p><p>Like everything was too fucking happy— the mall’s bouncy music and bright colors, the smiles that never seemed to leave Julie or Joey’s face, the stories about all the good times they shared. Every time he began to zone out, they were quick to shove him back into the conversation— and it <i>should</i> make him feel good, right? That they were trying to include him? But it doesn’t. It feels weird. Like they were trying too hard to keep him grounded.</p><p>He <i>knew</i> they had good times together. He was fucking there. Was that why Susie’s sour attitude was standing out so much to him? She wasn’t even attempting to play along with whatever the two were up to.</p><p>So Frank crumples up his wrapper, critically eyes his friends, and asks: “Okay. So what’s up?”</p><p>Julie falls silent. </p><p>“What do you mean?” Joey asks, his smile finally faltering, just a little.</p><p>“I <i>know</i> Susie didn’t need any fucking decorations,” Frank taps one of her shopping bags with the tip of his shoe. The blue-haired girl nervously nibbles her lower lip. “So why are we here?”</p><p>For what feels like an eternity, no one says a single word. Just like that, Frank has shattered through the illusion. Finally, Joey sighs. “We just wanted an excuse to hang out,” Joey admits, quietly. “It’s like you don’t even wanna be around us anymore.”</p><p>Frank laughs a bit, from his growing nerves than anything else. “That’s not even true.”</p><p>“Well, it <i>feels</i> true.” Joey rubs his arm. “It’s a struggle to get you to answer our calls or to get you to go anywhere with us. You stopped showing up at the diner…”</p><p>“I’ve been—”</p><p>“—Busy,” Julie finishes, bitterness laced in her words, “Yeah. We know.”</p><p>Quiet again. Even with the ambiance, the silence is deafening.</p><p>Julie is poking at her own pretzel with a fork. “I was hoping… after we had gone up to the lodge, that you’d start remembering we exist. But… you didn’t.”</p><p>“You started hanging out with us again for a while,” Joey tries to sound cheery, “But then… then you stopped again.” He meets his leader’s eyes, the only member to do so. “What the hell has you so busy, man?”</p><p>“Work,” Frank replies on reflex, which only makes Julie scoff and shake her head. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes his skin turn cold. Joey looks sympathetic and Susie? She was still lost in her own little world. He has to turn this around, put things back in his favor. “Don’t you guys want to get out of here as soon as possible? I’ve been trying to fill our fucking jar.”</p><p>“I’m surprised you still want to go with us,” Julie mutters, loud enough for him to hear.</p><p>“Of course I do! Why wouldn’t I?” he digs into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, “See?” He takes out the photo Joey had given him, places it delicately on the table. This catches their attention, and the three all turn their eyes on it. “No matter what, we’re family. Even if we’re not attached to the hip, I give a shit about you idiots.”</p><p>The teenagers in the photo looked a lot different than the ones before him. He notices how exhausted everyone looks, even as both Julie and Joey seem to be placated. <i>Was that because of him?</i> He shoves the thought away and continues, speaking calmly: “We still haven’t even decided where we want to go, you know? We still have to talk about that. We can get out of here after the dance, even.”</p><p>“Why did you ask Julie to the dance?”</p><p>A shockwave courses through Frank and his eyes dart over to Susie. She’s watching him intensely, the same intensity he thought he had seen during the drive. So it hadn’t been his imagination. Her words shake, but they’re said with an authority he didn’t know she had.</p><p>Julie blinks at her best friend, equally as surprised as Frank. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“She really wanted to go with you, you know,” Susie continues, stare still fixated on their leader. </p><p>Julie seems to take offense at having her secret revealed. “Sus—”</p><p>“You should have seen her yesterday. She was really, really happy.” Each word felt like an inescapable barrage. “I hadn’t seen her so happy in forever, you know? She was talking about matching costumes and—”</p><p>
  <i>“Sus!”</i>
</p><p>“And it’s just… It hurts, you know? It hurts to see her so happy. Because I want to see you both happy, and… and… I’m happy you’re happy, but she’s my best friend! And I can’t just sit here and pretend like everything’s normal, it’s not fair to her—”</p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about?” Frank finally snaps.</p><p>“Why would you <i>kiss</i> her?” Susie blurts out, before clamping her lips shut. Julie’s cheeks flush red.</p><p>It’s like he’s been punched in the gut. Because in that very moment, he knows. He knows that she knows. “How…?” He struggles to even speak, his voice so low that it makes the others strain to hear it.</p><p>Tears spring in Susie’s eyes like it pained her to even say what she did.</p><p>
  <i>Susie wasn’t quite sure why Frank had been so adamant about speaking to the reporter alone, but he had seemed so angry that the man had shown up. She supposed she couldn’t blame him— after all, hadn’t he been working with Officer McNamara? The cop never seemed to like Frank. Worry dances in her stomach and she can’t just sit around and hide. That wasn’t who she was anymore. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>As quietly as she can manage, she slowly pulls open the break room door. And her heart stops in her chest. The reporter has Frank’s face cupped, lifting it ever so slightly, and they were… were… Kissing. For a second, she can’t believe what she’s seeing. But their leader is melting into the man’s touch. Then, the reporter meets her eyes. Half-lidded gray eyes peering right at her and they were taunting her. Daring her to say something.</i>
</p><p>“What is she talking about?” Joey asks slowly, as if afraid he was walking on eggshells.</p><p>“That kiss didn’t mean anything,” Frank tells Susie, “It was just… in the moment.”</p><p>Julie whips her head towards him, green eyes glinting like a knife. “What the fuck do you mean?”</p><p><i>“No!”</i> Panic is making his heart race a million miles a minute. “No, shit. Jules, I didn’t mean you. I meant.” He crushes his tongue so hard it draws blood. What could he say? That he meant <i>Jed?</i> The reporter that no one fucking knew he was even associating with, let alone dating. No, no. There had to be another way to regain control of the situation.</p><p>“Someone fill me in,” Joey pleads, “I’m fucking lost.”</p><p>“I didn’t tell you,” Julie speaks first, coldly, “But when Frank and I went up to the lodge, we got high. Kissed. I thought that it meant something, but fuck. Evidently <i>not.”</i></p><p>“Hang on—” Frank tries to interject, but Julie continues:</p><p>“You know, you were the one who was all dopey with me the night we found out about The Frosted Man. And I’ve fucking noticed you checking me out, like, a million times. Then you asked me to the dance and I thought we were—”</p><p>He’s never felt so overwhelmed in his fucking life, her words attacking him over and over. He needed to think, he needed to regain control, but she just kept going on and on. Why the fuck was he sitting here listening to this bullshit? His vision flashes red with anger. “Jesus Christ, Julie! Shut the <i>fuck up</i> for a fucking second!”</p><p>Susie slaps a hand over her mouth and Joey stares at him, wordlessly, with his mouth hanging open. Julie stands, the seat creaking back as if trying to get away from her. </p><p>“Okay. You know what? No. Fuck this and fuck you. I’m done trying to deal with your shit.” </p><p>She grabs her drink, hurls it at him. Frank doesn’t get a chance to dodge as Susie and Joey jump to their feet, red liquid spilling all over his face. Dribbling down to his clothes. She storms off without another word. He can feel the stares of onlookers and it only serves to enrage him more.</p><p>“You fucking bitch!” Frank yells after her, rising to his own feet, but Joey is quick to grab him by the arm.</p><p>“Frank, no, please. Calm down!”</p><p>“Calm down!?” He shoves Joey away. “Why the fuck are you telling me to calm down?! She fucking <i>threw her fucking drink at me!”</i></p><p>“We just have to chill out for a sec—” Joey tries, but Frank ignores him in favor of looking to Susie and throwing his hands in the air.</p><p>“Are you fucking satisfied with yourself? Congratu-fucking-lations, now we’re <i>all</i> happy!”</p><p>Susie cringes, the tears she had been so desperately trying to hold overflowing. “I… I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want...”</p><p>“Oh, fuck right off.” He lunges towards the table, but instead of going for the senior, he grabs the photo. “You know what?” He laughs, too throaty to be real. “You know what? I don’t even know why we’re still <i>kidding</i> ourselves.” He holds the photo up for both teenagers to see, before ripping it straight in half. Then again, for good measure.</p><p>“There is no fucking Legion. And there hasn’t been for a long time.”</p><p>Joey’s eyes follow the photograph as it flutters to the ground. Susie can barely manage words, still has her arms tight to her chest, staring at him like he was inhuman: “You… You really have <i>changed,</i> Frank.”</p><p>“And look who’s fucking talking! Just because you got those stupid nerds to appoint you leader, you think that you can say whatever the fuck you want?”</p><p>Susie wipes her nose with her sleeve before she turns away and follows after Julie. Frank kicks away the photo piece Joey had bent down to collect before he too takes off. When he makes it back to his car, he tugs off his jacket and uses it to get the drying drink off his face. He throws it to the side. It falls lifelessly onto the passenger seat. He doesn’t bother turning on his stereo. The last thing he wanted to hear was those stupid fuckers’ taste in music.</p><p>The entire drive back, he thinks about how fucking sorry they’d be if he crashed his car and died.</p><p>When Frank makes it back to the house, he slams the door close and Clive complains and he flips his foster father off as he goes to his room, locks the door, and falls on the bed. Stupid fucking assholes! All of them! He grips his hand around his pillow, crushes his face into it. God, he wished he would have had his knife on him—! He would have—!</p><p>His anger strangles him, makes his vision black, and he falls into a fitful sleep. He reawakens when his dream is about him being stabbed over and over again at the grocery store. Frank spends the rest of the time staring up at the ceiling, hoping that he can sleep again so his mind would silence itself.</p><p>But instead, he’s tossing and turning in his bed and he can’t. He can’t just sleep. He’s so fucking restless right now, checks his phone, and is dismayed to see it was only nine-thirty. It felt like hours had passed, just playing their fucking words on a loop like a fucked up mixtape. He snatches his carton of cigarettes and a lighter.</p><p>Frank hasn’t done this since his last foster home, but he’s out the window and he climbs up to the roof. He just needs air. He just needs to sit down awhile, push those fucking thoughts out of his head. Remember? He can’t focus on the past. It <i>shouldn’t</i> be bothering him. They were gone. They were gone and whatever, who cares. Stop fucking thinking about it. Stop.</p><p>Frank glances upwards— makes out dots that litter the dark sky, the full moon staring down at him in all its glory. He laughs, can’t help it. It was a night just like any other, like nothing had even happened. Because nothing <i>did</i> happen.</p><p>He fumbles with his lighter for a bit before he manages to light up a cigarette. He takes a few puffs of it, but it doesn’t settle that sinking fucking feeling in his stomach. He hates it. He hates feeling this fucking way. He was Frank fucking Morrison. <i>They</i> were the ones who should be feeling crappy, not him. It wasn’t even his fucking fault! She was the one who had been so impatient… Couldn’t even fucking wait for his reply….</p><p>His hands are trembling, but he takes the cigarette from his lips and flicks off the ash and pushes it to his inner wrist.</p><p>Frank clenches his jaw, feeling his teeth gnash together in an attempt to muffle the howl of pain that wanted to be set free. His hand can no longer hold onto the cigarette and it tumbles down, down, off the roof, and onto the concrete below. </p><p>“Shit!” Frank snarls, as he peers over the roof, “God damn it, <i>god fucking damn it!”</i> He bangs his fist against the tile, not giving a fuck if Clive decided to get his drunk-ass off his chair to shout at him. He’d just tell that asshole to fuck off too.</p><p>Forcing his hands to still, he plucks out another cigarette and repeats the same process of lighting it up. This time, it goes more smoothly. “Fucking piece of shit…” He’s muttering under his breath, crushing the stick in between his teeth.</p><p>Frank couldn’t even <i>believe</i> he had fallen for that bullshit spiel about family. He fucking said they were family, how fucking <i>embarrassing.</i> Frank wasn’t the one who changed, <i>they</i> did. They brainwashed themselves into thinking they were actually good little kids. Like they didn’t fucking commit murder. Unbelievable. And what was with Susie acting so high and fucking mighty?</p><p>… </p><p>He shouldn’t have ripped up that photo. The look on Joey’s face was worse than any pain he could inflict on himself.</p><p>And maybe he shouldn’t have said what he said to Julie. That came out in the moment, a defense mechanism of the worst kind. His anger has diminished, he’s too tired to be angry. He should have explained himself better. Maybe he should call them. Maybe he could still fix this. Maybe he shouldn’t even bother. After all, they had made it abundantly clear that they were sick and tired of him. </p><p>Why wouldn’t they be?</p><p>He’s on his fourth cigarette when he hears: “Well, well. What’s the cat doing on a hot tin roof?”</p><p>Frank glances down to see dark eyes staring up at him. He scoffs and looks away. Danny was the last person he wanted to see right now, Frank didn’t want him to see him so... He takes another drag. “Haven’t you heard?” he forces himself to keep his voice flat, “There’s a curfew.”</p><p>“What can I say?” Frank can perfectly picture Danny’s playful little shrug. “I’m a rulebreaker.”</p><p>Frank doesn’t reply to that, but he does look back to the killer. He’s still watching him, his eyes gleaming under the moonlight. Despite Danny’s tone, his expression is devoid of any humor. They stare at one another for a long moment, before Danny rocks back on his heels. He notices that although the other was wearing regular clothing, he still had Ghostface’s combat boots on. He must have just come from stalking Preston.</p><p>“So… can I come up?”</p><p>Frank doesn’t say either yes or no, but it’s enough for the older man. He has no problem standing on the windowsill of his room, hoisting himself up, and soon he’s right next to Frank. Frank turns his head once more, trying to focus on his cigarette. It was nearly at a stub, but he was milking it for all it was worth.</p><p>As always, even with how shitty Frank feels, their silence was a comfortable one. Frank’s eyes fall to his wrist, onto the burn mark that was beginning to form. He brushes his fingers against it, not enough to feel pain. They stay like that for a while. He waits for Danny to break their quiet, but he doesn’t. </p><p>Once the last of the embers die out, Frank doesn’t bother reaching for another cigarette. It wasn’t helping. His lies weren’t helping. His body felt like it was just a husk. Like his heart had been carved out. And he knows he’s been unfair to them. He <i>knows</i> it. They had just wanted to help him. They just wanted to keep him happy, even as he had long since begun pushing them away. <i>He</i> was the one who fucked it up. Because that's what he always did. Was there even a way to come back from this?</p><p>“I think I’ve ruined everything,” Frank admits in a very small voice. Danny says nothing,  but Frank can feel the intensity of gray eyes studying him. He regrets having even said anything, draws his knees tightly into himself as if to protect him from the inevitability of the killer’s mockery. </p><p>“What do you mean?” Danny finally prods, with uncharacteristic gentleness.</p><p>Frank doesn’t want to <i>tell</i> him anything. Because if he <i>says</i> it out loud, then it’d become real. Then it wasn’t just all in his head. Then it’d actually happened and there was no running away from it. But Danny is waiting, as patiently as ever. So Frank lets out an inaudible sigh and recounts the events from earlier. When he gets to the actual fight, his throat constricts and he can’t tell if it's from sorrow or rising bile.</p><p>“You didn’t ruin anything,” Danny says when Frank finishes. Frank doesn’t know what to answer, and the older killer presses his shoulder against his. “Hey.” Frank doesn’t jerk away from the touch, but his eyes glance to the side. “Do you want to know what I think?”</p><p>After a few heartbeats, Frank decides to humor him: “What?”</p><p>“I think what you did was good.” Frank scoffs, which Danny returns with a soft chuckle, “I’m serious.” He continues then, his voice soothing like a lullaby, and as he goes on, Frank turns his attention to him fully: </p><p>“See, those friends of yours… They latched onto this mental image they created of you, of someone you never really <i>were.</i> They put you in a box and demanded you stay in it. They didn’t like <i>you,</i> they liked that you were the embodiment of anti-culture. And you tried so hard to be the person they wanted you to be, didn’t you, baby? They don’t understand how much you sacrificed for them. I don’t think they ever understood you at all.” Danny’s eyes become half-lidded. “The moment they were lucky enough to see you, the <i>real you...”</i></p><p>They left.</p><p>Just like every other person in Frank Morrison’s fucking life. </p><p>Because it was his fault, because—</p><p>“They blamed it on you. They blamed you for being the one who changed. Don’t let that shit get to your head. Don’t waste your emotions over people who never gave a shit about you. So you’ve let them go. Good. All they ever did was stop you from reaching your full potential. You can finally become who you want to be. Who Frank Morrison was <i>meant</i> to be.”</p><p>“And who is that?”</p><p>Danny gives a half-shrug, voice hushed and twinged with amusement like he was revealing a secret: “I won’t put you in a box, Frank.”</p><p>Frank is mystified. No one’s ever told him he could <i>decide</i> who to be. Maybe it was silly, something obvious he should have already known, but to Frank— it meant the entire world. It was akin to Prometheus being unchained from the mountain— released from all that burdened him. </p><p>Yeah.</p><p>Danny was right. What the fuck had he been thinking?</p><p>It <i>wasn’t</i> Frank’s fault.</p><p>Frank almost wants to laugh, blinks away the tears he didn’t notice had threatened to form. He couldn’t believe he had thought any different. But that was Danny— he always seemed to be there to snap Frank out of it. That’s because Danny <i>understood</i> him. He was the only one in this shithole of a town that did. It’d been Danny who showed him he was wearing a mask, and he was the one who helped to pull it off his face.</p><p>The person beneath it all… <i>Who was he?</i> When he lifted the mask up, all he could see was a darkness that seemed both inviting and frightening. Frank didn’t know what was past that yet, maybe one day he would. But he would only find that out with Danny. That’s alright. There was nothing left for him here.</p><p>“I want to leave Canada,” Frank’s voice begins barely above a whisper, but it becomes more audible as his resolve strengthens. “After we’re done in Ormond.”</p><p>The killer blinks, the only giveaway that his statement caught him off-guard. A lazy smile slowly draws on his features. “Baby,” Danny purrs, “We can go anywhere you want.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">my finals are done, i've taken a million naps, now it's time to get back to work! uwu</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">big thank you to my lovely betas megidola and bwoo for all your help this chapter!! we had a lengthy discussion about how the fight should go, deciding that susie would be the catalyst. frank doesn't seem to realize that she isn't the meek girl he knew- of course, she would never out him but he was essentially leading on her best friend. and that was <i>not</i> going to slide. if they had all gotten to speak, if they hadn't kept any secrets between them, maybe everyone wouldn't have been so stuck in their half-truths about the situation. but alas, that didn't happen. 💕</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">to quote dear megidola: "play of the game: danny, by doing absolutely nothing"</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Two Spartans</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Alright,” Frank says a little while later, straightening up in an effort to look like none of what happened earlier really affected him, “I know you weren’t just in the neighborhood. What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>“An astute observation, dear partner,” Danny croons, earning an affectionate roll of the eyes from the dropout, “As you know, I was out watching lucky number six. Like I figured— he’s not too complex of a person, seems to have a routine for the most part. It was disappointingly easy to come up with a plan. Still… For it to work, you’re going to have to take a starring role.”</p>
<p>Frank shifts slightly, his hand brushing against the cool tile of the roof. Though the serial killer’s expression remains unchanged, Frank can hear the giddiness in his words. Pure excitement that spreads itself to Frank, despite his confusion over the statement. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>Danny leans towards him, gently cups his chin, and pulls the dropout towards him. He can feel his breath gloss his lips, smelling of the mint gum Danny was so fond of. They’re so close, the heart that had mourned and wept earlier was now racing with a renewed elation: begging for the serial killer to kiss him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he whispers: <i>“Here’s how we’ll do it...”</i></p>
<p>Frank leans against the side of the bar, back to grimy brick, and teeth clenched against an unlit cigarette. He was waiting with a twinge of impatience, as he’d been here for about a half-hour now. He was dressed how he normally was: plain shirt, cut jeans, and his varsity jacket— which Danny had specifically told him to bring. It felt slightly weird to be doing crime without his paper mask to keep his identity protected— though, he supposes, it <i>wasn’t</i> really a crime yet. </p>
<p>The bar door opens and out stumbles the man of the hour: Gage Preston.</p>
<p>“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow,” he was saying to the people behind him, his words only slightly slurred. Frank has to stifle a chuckle. <i>How embarrassing—</i> because of Ormond’s curfew, the man was already buzzed and it was barely eight in the night. Frank steps out from the alleyway, takes a second to observe him.</p>
<p>Despite how he sounded, he <i>seemed</i> totally fine. At least when he was standing still. He reminded Frank of a mid-tier television star: white shirt underneath a jean jacket, dark pants, and sunglasses hanging on the collar. It wasn’t the first glimpse he’d had of the former athlete, but this would be the first time he’d be interacting with him. His mind is quick to remind him of his failures with Mrs. Sullivan, but he shoves that thought away. This would be different. This time, he’d prove that Danny hadn’t been wrong to leave such a vital part of the plan up to Frank. </p>
<p>The older man didn’t seem to notice him yet, too busy digging into his pockets for his keys. Frank was just glad Gage wasn’t completely smashed, otherwise, this would have all been fruitless. The dropout tightens his resolve and speaks up: “Hey, you got a light?”</p>
<p>Gage turns to him and slowly blinks at him as if surprised to have been spoken to. “Uh, sure. I’ve got one. Hang on…” He shifts his hand to the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a red lighter and passing it to Frank.</p>
<p>With expert hands, the younger dropout is quick to set fire to the cigarette. He takes a drag before he returns the lighter to its rightful owner. “Thanks, I’m a dumbass. I forgot mine back home.”</p>
<p>Gage laughs at that. “Don’t worry, I’m the same way. Swear to God; I’d lose my head if it weren’t on my shoulders.” He goes back to rustling around his pockets. “Can’t even find my keys…”</p>
<p>Frank doesn’t feel it’s important to tell him that Danny had swiped them earlier. He had slipped out of the bar not ten minutes before, dangling the prize in front of him and giving a little wink before he left with a: “All up to you now, baby.”</p>
<p>“You could always go ask the bartender if anyone’s found them,” Frank helpfully points out instead.</p>
<p>“Hmm, nah,” Gage scratches the top of his head in thought, “It’s no big deal. They’ll turn up.” The blond man takes a good look at Frank as if seeing him for the first time. A lazy grin forms on his face. <i>“Hey—</i> Fairview!” Before Frank can even say anything, he continues: “You know, I used to go there.”</p>
<p>Frank feigns surprise, shifting in his stance and letting his eyes widen just a little. “No shit?” He had guessed that was the reason Danny asked him to bring the jacket: it made the perfect icebreaker. Now it was up to Frank to continue to play along.</p>
<p>“Yeah!” Gage nods his head, a bit too enthusiastically. “Yeah, I was on the swimming team. Go Spartans!” He does a slight fist pump and Frank smiles to avoid sneering. Oh, he knew Gage’s type alright. A dumbass jock, a prep with no cares or worries. One of the ugliest kinds of people. Frank’s had a few run-ins with them before, but they’d always been pussies that turned tail when he threatened them. As pathetic as they were, they were completely easy to deal with.</p>
<p>“Basketball,” Frank informs him, gesturing to his jacket. “Point guard.”</p>
<p>“You still go there? Did you guys win your last season?”</p>
<p>“Nah, I…” Frank pauses for a moment. He didn’t think it’d sit right with Gage if he admitted to getting kicked out of the school in the middle of one of its <i>precious games.</i> “I don’t go there anymore.”</p>
<p>“Bummer,” Gage doesn’t seem too torn up over that. In fact, his grin only widens. “Oh shit, I didn’t introduce myself, did I? I’m Gage. Gage Preston. But my friends call me Preston.”</p>
<p>“I’m Frank Morrison,” He’s unable to stop himself from continuing, “But my friends call me Frank.”</p>
<p>He briefly thinks of the traitors he had called his friends and a hatred is set ablaze in his stomach, but he forces himself to quell it. He had to listen to Danny— brooding over them would only be a waste of time. He couldn’t let <i>them</i> hinder his performance.</p>
<p>“Well, it was nice to meet ya, Frank,” Gage cheerily says, snapping Frank out of his thoughts. The man’s attention has shifted, watching as more people begin to leave the bar. Luckily, Clive hadn’t been one of the patrons tonight. “But I’d better get going.”</p>
<p>Frank furrows his brows. “What’s the rush?”</p>
<p>“Curfew. It’s gonna kick in soon and I need to haul ass to the bus stop.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t even turn before Frank laughs, flicking off the ashes of the cigarette. “No need for that. I’m headed out myself, why don’t I just give you a ride home?”</p>
<p>This seems to sober the man up and his face scrunches up in puzzlement. “Really?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s no big deal. You know the buses here take forever.”</p>
<p>Gage nods in agreement. “Well…” He seems to be debating with himself. Frank hides his annoyance by taking another deep drag of the cigarette. “That’s awfully nice, and a little too trusting.” His blue eyes dance with amusement. “What if I’m secretly Ghostface?”</p>
<p>If Frank is surprised by the question, he makes no show of it. “Come on,” he snorts before he takes out the stick and crushes it underneath his foot, “Like I wouldn’t trust a fellow Spartan.”</p>
<p>This answer seems to satisfy Gage. “You’re right. We’re like brothers, man. And brothers don’t kill each other.”</p>
<p>Frank decides not to bring up Cain and Abel. “True.”</p>
<p>As they make their way to Frank’s car, Gage asks: “So what were you doing out here, anyway? I don’t think I saw you inside.”</p>
<p>“I was waiting for someone, but they never showed.”</p>
<p>“Bummer. Was it a date or something?”</p>
<p>Not having planned out an entire story, Frank gives a half-hearted shrug. “Or something.”</p>
<p>Gage returns this with a sympathetic glance but doesn’t push the line of questioning any further than that. They pause in front of Frank’s car and he takes his time to get out his keys and start it up. Gage needed to take in every detail of the beat-up vehicle: every little scratch and dent and what type of car it was. </p>
<p>Once Frank is certain Gage studied it enough, the car’s headlights finally turn on. “Hope you don’t mind riding in a rust bucket,” he jokes.</p>
<p>“Anything’s better than Ormond’s public transportation,” Gage jokes back and a genuine chuckle escapes the younger dropout.</p>
<p>They enter the car and Gage is more than happy to supply Frank with his address. He can’t help but think about how funny that is— the other man had told him he was too trusting, and yet here he was. In a car with his soon-to-be murderer. Frank begins to drive, the stereo blares to life, having been in the middle of a mixtape.</p>
<p>It pains Frank to do so, but he lowers the volume a bit so the two can hear each other. Gage is bobbing his head ever-so-slightly, his fingers drumming against his thigh. “Metallica, good taste.”</p>
<p><i>“You</i> listen to Metallica?”</p>
<p>“Uh, yeah man.” Gage laughs, ceasing in his movements, “They’re fucking awesome. One of the greatest bands ever to grace mankind. In fact, music was invented the day Master of Puppets released.”</p>
<p>Frank blinks, still looking out onto the street. “Huh.”</p>
<p>“What?” Gage squints at him suspiciously.</p>
<p>“Figured you’d be more of a chart-topper type of guy.”</p>
<p>“You’d figure wrong,” Gage replies, good-humoredly, though he grimaced at the false accusation. As if trying to defend his honor, he continues: “For a while, I even tried to learn how to play guitar.”</p>
<p>Frank recalls seeing a Gibson in Gage’s bedroom, painfully neglected. The top half of it stuck out from a pile of dirty laundry, resembling someone poking their head out of the water to gasp for air. When Frank had pointed out the object, Danny had joked he could go back and rescue it after Gage was dead.</p>
<p>Still, despite that, Frank could always appreciate good music taste. The two Spartans continue the rest of the drive discussing their favorite bands and songs, not a moment of dead air between them. Frank feels some type of mock gratitude— it seemed like Gage was perfectly content with doing his job for him.</p>
<p>In fact, Frank decides to take the longer route home in order to keep the jock in his car for a few extra minutes.</p>
<p>He stops in front of Gage’s house and watches as the man gets out. Walks a few paces towards the front door. Frank makes like he’s about to drive off when the man turns back around. “Hey,” he says, approaching the car once more. “You <i>sure</i> you don’t wanna come in? I could show you my guitar, play Wonderwall.”</p>
<p>“You know how it is,” Frank gestures vaguely towards the steering wheel, “Don’t wanna get fined for being out.”</p>
<p>Gage seems a bit disappointed but pats the car door. “Well. Thanks again. I really appreciate it, man.”</p>
<p>“But, if you’re free tomorrow,” and Frank knew he was, as Gage only drank when he wasn’t working the next day, “You wanna go to Michelle’s?”</p>
<p>“Tell you what. You get me there, and I’ll pay for your meal.”</p>
<p>Frank smirks. “Alright then, you have a deal.”</p>
<p>The two bid each other goodbye after deciding on a time to meet. Frank drives off and he’s grinning from ear to ear. <i>Holy shit.</i> So is this what Danny felt whenever he wormed his way closer to the victims? He thought the murder gave him the highest thrill possible, but just seeing that genuine grin on Gage’s face… <i>fuck,</i> that was an intense rush of adrenaline.</p>
<p>Oh, he’s remembering the look on McNamara’s face upon seeing his attacker and he’s never been more ready for anything in his life.</p>
<p>He makes it back to Clive’s house a little past the curfew, but who gives a flying fuck? Frank’s above the law in this stupid town, and if his foster dad wanted to bitch and moan about it— he could be his guest. Frank opens the door, spies Clive on the phone, and the old fuck says:</p>
<p>“Oh, you know what? He just came in.” Clive moves the phone away from his face, shouting: “Morrison, your friend wants to speak to you.”</p>
<p>Frank scoffs, walking past the open kitchen to the hallway. His ‘friend’, huh? He highly doubted it was Danny, who would just call him on his cellphone. “Tell them I’m not home.”
</p>
<p>Clive cocks a bushy brow at that, but tells the caller: “He says he’s not home right now…” Frank doesn’t finish listening to the conversation, closing the door behind him. </p>
<p>He shrugs off the jacket, throwing it over the chair. Part of him was hoping Danny would be here, waiting for him, but it’s just an empty room. There wasn’t much to do in this space and he’s still feeling rather zealous. He’s shifting through his closet, hunting for his spray cans, when Clive knocks on the door.</p>
<p>Despite the decency, the old man comes in anyway. “Joey left a message for you. Said to call him back whenever you felt up to it.”</p>
<p>Frank, still crouched by his closet, rolls his eyes. “Okay, thanks.” He pauses in shifting his stuff around, annoyance needling his skin.</p>
<p>He can still feel Clive’s presence, so he glances over his shoulder. The old man was leaning against the doorway, scratching at the back of his head like a dog battling fleas. “What?”</p>
<p>“Did…” The old man is looking anywhere but at the dropout. “Did you two get in a fight or something?”</p>
<p>“Or something,” Frank mutters, not caring whether or not his foster dad heard him. He returns to his search. “Not that it’s any of <i>your</i> business.”</p>
<p>“Look, kid. I haven’t been one to police you. I let you come in and out of the house whenever you want, do whatever the fuck you want…”</p>
<p>“Uh-huh.”</p>
<p>“Point is, uh, I ain’t one to meddle in your affairs. But you two seemed awfully close. And I’m not gonna ask what went down, but word of advice— It ain’t good to run away from your problems.”</p>
<p>Frank’s eyes narrow.</p>
<p>“You should talk to him, try to see his side of things. Maybe you two can fix whatever—”</p>
<p>“Oh please,” Frank rises to his feet and whips around so he can face the man fully, <i>“Please</i> don’t tell me you’re trying to step up and act like father-of-the-year.”</p>
<p>Clive’s nostrils flare, clearly offended by the statement. “I’m just trying to help you out, kid. Running from shit ain’t gonna help you. Your problems will always be there, one step behind you. Trust me, I’d know.”</p>
<p>He can’t believe what he’s hearing. Did the world suddenly go topsy-turvy or some shit? Frank studies the man briefly, sees his face isn’t as red as if it usually was from the liquor. <i>Great.</i> Sober Clive. Even worse than a drunken one.</p>
<p>“Oh fuck off,” Frank doesn’t bother to hide his aggravation, “You don’t know shit about me <i>or</i> my problems.”</p>
<p>Clive glares at him, pointing one of his grimy sausage fingers at him. “Don’t talk to me like that, Morrison.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>“Why not?!” The man sputters out, “Why not? Because I’m your fucking <i>charge</i> that’s why not!”</p>
<p>“Come on,” Frank forces himself to relax, to put on an easy-going grin because he knows it’ll only piss off the other man more. “You’re the one who said you were only here for the cheques. Why don’t you go grab a beer with the money that’s supposed to be for me?”</p>
<p>Clive doesn’t reply to that, his face distorted from anger.</p>
<p>“Yeah. Thought so.” Frank goes back to the closet. “So you take care of your shit, and I’ll take care of mine.”</p>
<p><i>”Jesus,</i> kid,” is all Clive can manage before he exits his room. Frank finally finds what he was looking for, an old shoebox that contained the rest of his past. Spray cans, loose matchsticks, a switchblade, a blank plastic mask that he’d used before his current one.</p>
<p>He reaches for his cans but pauses— <i>shit.</i> He hadn’t really thought about it, but what if he was caught tagging something up? Danny would be pretty pissed at him if he got arrested for something so trivial. He groans, closes the box, and kicks it away.</p>
<p>Frank instead goes to his dresser, pulls out a blunt, and fires it up. Then, he flops on his bed. Running away from his problems… What the fuck did Clive know? Frank didn’t <i>run</i> from anything. He had nothing to talk to Joey about, plain and simple. He was just as bad as the other two, not even trying to defend Frank. Just stood there like some worthless bystander.</p>
<p>His blunt is more than halfway finished when a familiar chime rings. Frank eagerly sits up, a little too fast, and opens his bedside drawer. His cellphone was lit up, begging for him to answer it. And of course, Frank does.</p>
<p>“Hiya, Partner,” Danny whispers, in that familiar rasp. It makes Frank feel warm and cozy.</p>
<p>“Hiya, Ghostie.” Feeling mellowed out, he burns out whatever was left of his joint to save for later. “I was hoping you’d call.”</p>
<p>“Really now?”</p>
<p>“Mhm. Everything went perfectly. The guy’s just as much of an idiot as you thought he’d be.” He relays the rest of the events to the older man, who gives a hum of approval.</p>
<p>“I knew you could do it, baby boy.” Frank smiles faintly at the praise. “Never had a doubt in my mind.”</p>
<p>“I’d hope so. Otherwise, what’s the point in having me around?”</p>
<p>That makes Danny titter. “Well then, keep up the good work.” Softly, he adds: “I trust you.”</p>
<p>Frank lets his eyes slip close, pleased that Danny was happy with him. <i>I trust you.</i> Those three little words alone send him to paradise. Who else could say that they’ve had a notorious lone killer tell them that? He had his total and complete trust, and the feeling was mutual.</p>
<p>“Hey, Danny?” He murmurs before the man can hang up.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Hmm?”</i>
</p>
<p>“Will you stay on the line with me? Until I fall asleep?”</p>
<p>For a moment, there’s silence. Perhaps if Frank had been less high, he would have kicked himself, thought his request was stupid, try to backtrack. Instead, he patiently waits. A chuckle comes through. “Of course, baby.”</p>
<p>Danny’s quiet breathing is enough for Frank to doze into a blissful rest. No bitter thoughts are plaguing him, reminding him of the loneliness he is trying to bury. No problems are nipping at his heels, one step behind. There are only thoughts of a future crime, of a future life where it’s just him and Danny against the ugly world.</p>
<p>Frank drives up to Gage’s the next morning at around nine, and he’s actually surprised to see the man waiting for him. He gives a casual wave as he spies Frank’s car pull up, and Frank returns this with a lift of his hand. The older dropout approaches him with a grin.</p>
<p>“Hey! I was trying to remember if I actually met you, or if it was a booze-induced hallucination.”</p>
<p>Frank pretends to ponder this. “Definitely the hallucination.”</p>
<p>Gage laughs, runs his hand over a small dent on the side passenger door. “Nah. I couldn’t dream up such a shitty car.”</p>
<p>This amuses Frank greatly. His car was some used hunk of junk that he bought for two hundred off one of Clive’s friends. It had broken down more than a few times, but he spent most of junior high working in a mechanic shop and was more than capable of fixing it up. Still, no matter how much he worked on it, there was no making a piece of shit look like a diamond.</p>
<p>“You gonna talk shit all day, or are you hopping in?”</p>
<p>Gage chooses the latter. “Oh, by the way, I did find my keys. Turns out, they were in my pockets the entire time.”</p>
<p>Frank smiles, amused by the mental image of Ghostface breaking in solely to slip the keys back into his coat before the man woke up sober.</p>
<p>It’s not long before the two of them make it to the diner. Although Frank knows it’s all part of the plan, it’s… a little hard to be here. He stares towards the doors. Frank hadn’t particularly <i>liked</i> this place, always thought it felt so fake, but he thinks of him and his friends in the back booth…</p>
<p><i>Like you really enjoyed hanging out,</i> his brain taunts in a familiar whisper, <i>you hated being there. Being normal.</i></p>
<p>“Yo Frank, you coming?”</p>
<p>He snaps out of his memories at Gage’s call and trails after him. The two of them take the booth near the diner girl’s memorial, neither seeming to be quite fazed by the reminder. Her smiling portrait has most likely stopped being a tragic sight for the locals, becoming nothing more than a decoration. He wonders if that’s how she would have wanted to be memorialized, but then realizes he doesn’t really care.</p>
<p>“Welcome to Michelle’s! How can I— Oh, it’s you.”</p>
<p>It was just Frank’s luck that their server would be the one from his visit with Jed. She didn’t even attempt to hide the sour look on her face, looking at Frank like he was some rotten trash that was left out too long. </p>
<p>“Hey, Caroline!” Gage chirps, causing the brown-haired girl to turn her attention on him. Her demeanor instantly shifts, becoming much more cheery and bright. It takes all the effort in the world to keep the younger dropout from rolling his eyes. </p>
<p>“Preston! I haven’t seen you here in a good minute. I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s got you so busy?”</p>
<p>“Ah you know,” he rubs the back of his head sheepishly, “Work here and there…” </p>
<p>She scoffs, putting a playful hand on her hip. “Bullshit. You’re probably out drinking again, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“Well... “ He grins. “I guess there’s no sense lying to you, huh?”</p>
<p>“Obviously. Should I put you down for your usual?”</p>
<p>“Better make that two, Carol. I’m paying for my new friend here, too.”</p>
<p>The waitress gives Frank a critical eye, finally seeming to remember that he was here. Frank meets her fiery gaze unflinchingly. Maybe he shouldn’t eat, less she spits into his food. “Alright, two usuals then.” She saunters off, leaving the two Spartans to their conversation.</p>
<p>“How do you know her?” Frank asks when the waitress is gone from sight.</p>
<p>“Oh. She was my high school sweetheart,” Gage says casually, like it’s no big deal, “But she and I wanted different things. She was always a small-town girl at heart and well… I wasn’t so keen on staying in Ormond.”</p>
<p>This catches Frank’s interest. “But you’re still here.”</p>
<p>Gage doesn’t seem too bothered by the bluntness of Frank’s observation, and gives a little chuckle. “Yeah, well, you got me there. I left the town for a while, but what can I say?” He leans back in his seat. “This place is a curse. It never <i>really</i> lets you leave.”</p>
<p>Frank shudders to think that could be true. “I’m getting out of here,” he tells him. He isn’t quite sure why he does, perhaps it’s simply to boast— to wave his freedom in front of the other dropout’s face. “In two weeks.”</p>
<p>“Two weeks huh?” Gage raises an eyebrow. “You know, that’s when Ghostface’s gonna strike again.” Frank snorts like his words were nothing more than a funny joke.</p>
<p>“Maybe you are Ghostface,” Frank retorts, “Since that’s the second time you’ve mentioned him.”</p>
<p>He expects the other man to laugh it off, but instead, Gage becomes embarrassed. “Ah, shit. Sorry.” The blond shifts in his seat. “I know it’s not really a good conversation so early in the morning. But uh, actually— well. I don’t know. Promise not to judge?”</p>
<p>“Uh. I promise.”</p>
<p>“Truth be told, I’m super into Ghostface.” Probably noticing the strange expression on Frank’s face, he continues rapidly: “Well, no, let me rephrase that— I’m not into the killer himself, or the actual murders, but the mystery of it all.”</p>
<p><i>Did Danny know about that?</i> Frank refuses to let this new information catch him by surprise, keeping his body and words nonchalant: “Huh, really? Well. That’s not <i>too</i> out there, considering the news doesn’t seem to shut the fuck up about him.”</p>
<p>Gage seems to appreciate the words, relieved. The waitress comes back with two coffees and their meal: just some eggs and french toast. Frank picks at the toast, suspicious over the fact that his had a bit of a shine to it. The conversation shifts to something far less intriguing: sports. Gage was back to talking like a stereotypical jock, but Frank’s not stupid. There was definitely more to the college dropout than the meathead Frank originally dismissed him as.</p>
<p>Though the topic is boring and Frank desperately wants to get back to talking about Ghostface, he allows Gage to continue without much input from the younger dropout. Though, one story does catch his interest:</p>
<p>“... And I guess I hit the boards too hard, got a pretty fucked up concussion ‘cus of it,” Gage was telling him, pausing to take a sip of his coffee. “Woke up in the hospital three days later. Doc said I was out for the season. Turns out I couldn’t play again, my right eye’s still half-blind.”</p>
<p>“Jesus,” Frank was leaning forward, trying to <i>act</i> sympathetic when all he could feel was complete fascination. “That must have been awful.”</p>
<p>Gage chuckles weakly, trying to force a smile. Frank relishes in its appearance: seeing the more miserable side of the older man was much more interesting than hearing him relive his glory days. “Yeah, awful’s one word for it. That injury pretty much fucked up my life. Since I couldn’t play sports, I couldn't keep my scholarship. I wasn’t exactly a star pupil in my actual classes, so there was nothing the university could do.” </p>
<p>“So you got kicked out, who cares?” Frank snorts, which only makes Gage blink in surprise. “They did you a favor.”</p>
<p>“Huh. I’ve never heard anyone say <i>that</i> before.”</p>
<p>“Who needs school anyways? You go there to learn how to be a good little robot for the government. They don’t teach you the real shit you’ll need in life. You can only really learn through life experiences, and man— I’d say you had a fuckin’ life experience.”</p>
<p>“That’s cool and all,” Gage patiently dismisses Frank’s rant, “But life experiences don’t exactly pay the bills.”</p>
<p>“Tch.” Frank swipes at his nose. “Money, my fellow Spartan, is just another one of the government’s tools to keep your head down. They want to work you until you die, so you don’t notice all the shit they’re doing wrong.”</p>
<p>“What are they doing wrong?” Gage inquires, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table.</p>
<p>“They’re…” Frank thinks for a moment. “They’re keeping the Canadian youth down, for one. The foster system is a shithole. And taxes are high.” He doesn’t particularly know if that last part is true, but it sounds right. He’s heard enough of his former fosters complain about that.</p>
<p>“Hah. I guess that’s true.” Gage nods his head, giving a little sigh. “I wish I could agree with your devil-may-care attitude, but… You grow up, you learn you just have to swallow some hard truths.” Gage’s eyes shift to the side. “You take it without putting up much of a fight.”</p>
<p><i>‘That’s because you’re a pushover,’</i> Frank inwardly sneers.</p>
<p>“What I wouldn’t give to be a teenager again…” Gage laments, a faraway look in his eye. “I would have rebelled with you.”</p>
<p>Frank finds himself disappointed, but not surprised. He greatly disliked being dismissed because he was a teenager, but it was something he was used to. It was something all adults did when they knew they couldn’t counter what he said. In the end, every adult was the same, thinking they knew everything just because they had a few more years on this Earth than Frank did.</p>
<p>Danny was the only exception to this— never treating him like lesser for his age. This extended to his two other personas as well: Florida always regarded him with respect and Ghostface may have teased him, but praised him for his observations and work.</p>
<p>Had it been any other time, he would have told the man to fuck off or something. But he couldn’t jeopardize this just because he was pissy over the other’s words. Instead, he assures himself with the fact that he was going to be the cause of Gage’s death. </p>
<p>Deciding he’s tired of this “You’ll learn when you’re older” talk and of staying in Gage’s past, he returns to what he was interested in— goes back to the college dropout’s earlier statements.</p>
<p>“So, how big of a Ghostface freak are you?”</p>
<p>That seems to take Gage out of his melancholy state. “I feel like I have to reiterate: not a Ghostface fan, just morbidly fascinated by his work.”</p>
<p>“Right, right.”</p>
<p>“I’m no ace detective or anything, but I keep all the newspaper clippings and I have VHS recordings of the news segments.”</p>
<p>“Wow.” Frank didn’t see <i>any</i> of that when they investigated his home. Then again, he hadn’t gotten a chance to look at all the rooms in the place. They had split up as they did for the Sullivans, upon Danny’s insistence. That had kind of bugged Frank in the moment, since Gage’s one-story house wasn’t so big they needed to break off.</p>
<p>“I don’t have any suspects or anything, but…”</p>
<p>Gage was still going on, but Frank was still trying to remember everything he’d seen during their home invasion. It’d been a big mess, could it be possible that those clippings and such were under all the crap Gage had littered around?</p>
<p><i>Shit.</i> How could the two of them miss such a huge detail? He would have to tell Danny about this later— though he wishes he could just call him <i>now.</i> Unfortunately, he never actually did get the serial killer’s number, always having to sit around and wait for him to call first.</p>
<p>Oh well. He’d just have to look at them himself. It would be sort of exciting to know something Danny wouldn’t. Then again, he had a sneaking suspicion that the serial killer did see them and just didn’t bring it up. <i>But why?</i></p>
<p>“I wanna see this for myself,” Frank requests, tactfully cutting into the man’s excited rambling, “If you want to show them off.”</p>
<p>Gage pauses, his eyes shining bright. “Oh, shit. Yeah! That’d be awesome.”</p>
<p>For someone who wasn’t a fan of Ghostface, he seemed much too happy at the thought of someone coming over to see footage of dead people. If Frank didn’t know any better, he <i>definitely</i> would have been suspicious of the other blond. He had Ghostie’s height, though he was more broadly built from his years of athletics over Danny’s stealth.</p>
<p>Gage calls the waitress over for the check, who gives it to him half-price. She makes a snide comment to Frank about how he barely touched his food and he gives a shrug, saying he wasn’t hungry even as his stomach quietly rumbles in protest. She offers stunning insight upon the revelation of this fact:</p>
<p>“If you’re not hungry, <i>don’t</i> order.”</p>
<p>The two Spartans make it back to Gage’s house in record time, having been at the diner for nearly two hours. Frank does have to admit, it’s hard acting like everything is a brand new surprise for him, but maybe his lack of reaction is for the best. After all, it’d be rude to his host if he made a face at the state of disarray the house was in.</p>
<p>Frank’s used to living in places like these: places where the living room couch was covered in plastic in an attempt to keep dirt and grime off it, yet clothes were slung without care over it. On the little coffee table rested a blue mug that had been there since he came here with Danny and had a bit of dried coffee still stuck to it. These weren’t the only notable things, of course, but perhaps then every little thing would be worth pointing out: how loose notepad papers were strewn across the dining table, how the dishes piled up in the sink and Gage remedied this by using plastic ones, how the blue walls were chipped.  None of this seemed to affect the college dropout, who seemed to have long become accustomed to this state. It was almost pitiful. Emphasis on the <i>‘almost’.</i></p>
<p>Unsurprisingly, the only things that seemed to be well-taken care of were polished trophies that rested in a large case by the front door. Gage makes sure that Frank notices them, though no one could possibly miss it. When the older jock begins to walk the delinquent through each and every one, starting from a first-place trophy in kickball, Frank less-than-politely reminds him why they were here in the first place.</p>
<p>“Oh, right, right,” Gage answers, absent-mindedly, as he returns the trophy into the case with delicate hands. Frank wonders if he noticed that his swimming medal had gone missing. That didn’t <i>seem</i> like the case, yet. He would have loved to see his reaction, but then again— he really didn’t make much of a fuss when things did go missing.</p>
<p>The college dropout leads the teenager past the bedroom door and to the closed one at the end of the hall, confirming Frank’s theory that he wouldn’t have noticed this because he didn’t search that part of the house. Gage fumbles with the doorknob a bit, shouldering the door. “It always gets stuck,” he explains. Frank makes a little noise of understanding.</p>
<p>It eventually does give way, one of the cardboard boxes that were in front of the door being pushed far enough away to allow entrance. Gage pauses at the doorway, turning to Frank. “Okay. I haven’t <i>actually</i> shown this to anyone. So please don’t think I’m a weirdo.”</p>
<p>“You’re a jock who listens to Metallica and clips newspapers for fun. I already think you’re a weirdo,” Frank replies.</p>
<p>Gage chuckles at that, relaxing his shoulders neither knew had been tense. “That’s what I like about you,” Gage tells him with sincerity, “You say what’s on your mind. I’m so used to people putting up an act around me. It’s honestly refreshing.”</p>
<p>With that, Gage enters first, flicking on the light in order for Frank to take in the room’s full glory. And Frank, for a moment, is rendered speechless. He barely remembers that he can even walk—  each step slow and deliberate as he follows in after the jock.</p>
<p>Because it’s not a <i>few</i> newspaper clippings and a <i>few</i> VHS tapes.</p>
<p>The room itself is dedicated to Ghostface. The walls are painted a smoky gray, almost black in color. The newspaper clippings are all posted on the forward-facing wall, the VHS tapes pile up on a table to the side with a small television that rests on top. The boxes that had crowded the door were full of books about unsolved murders from around the world. There’s a replica of Ghostface’s mask on the table across from the television, just as polished as Gage’s trophies.</p>
<p>Two thoughts run through Frank’s mind. The first is: <i>Holy shit.</i> And the second is: <i>I better not get shanked right now.</i></p>
<p>“Jesus.”</p>
<p>Gage rubs the back of his head, nervously. “Aha… Yeah, you know. Kind of looking at it now, it’s kind of a bit too much, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“That wouldn’t be the word I’d use,” Frank mutters, making his way to the newspaper clippings. Some of them were just little snippets, but others were the full-blown front page.</p>
<p>“I guess I just bought into the Ghostface craze,” Gage was saying, but Frank is no longer paying attention. He’s scanning the articles, more just to appear interested. Many of the writers got their facts wrong about the cases, such as the initial wounds of the victims. They each have their own speculations about how the crimes were committed, all wrong. </p>
<p>There was no way that Danny <i>didn’t</i> know about this. But why wouldn’t he have told Frank about it? This was such an important piece of information. He had said he trusted him, hadn’t he? But he couldn’t trust him with this? Why? Frank’s eyes are drawn to one of the full-page articles, and he recognizes it right away. It’s about the diner girl. The headline reads:</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <i>AMERICAN SERIAL KILLER STRIKES SMALL CANADIAN TOWN!</i>
  </b>
</p>
<p>This was the article that Jed had written. He had read it so many times it was committed to his memory: <i>“Terror seizes Ormond as only two weeks after The Frosted Man’s discovery, another gruesome murder has been committed. A photo sent to the Calgary Post by an unknown source shows not only the scene, but the culprit, believed to be the wanted American serial killer, Ghostface. Whether or not this is a copycat is unknown at this time.”</i></p>
<p>…</p>
<p>“Yeah, that one’s interesting isn’t it?” Gage pipes up, “This is the crime that really put Ormond on its toes. Poor Mindy. You know, we were actually friends back in high school.”</p>
<p>Frank frowns, staring at the page. </p>
<p>“She was a cheerleader, downright the sweetest thing you could have ever met. Her boyfriend and I used to hang out, shoot hoops after school. I wonder what he’s up to these days?”</p>
<p>There was something off about this article.</p>
<p>“Her funeral was really nice, not a dry eye in the house. Her brother read this really beautiful poem. I think it went like—”</p>
<p>“Hey,” Frank cuts in, as he pulls back. His eyes are still locked onto the page, unable to look away from it. “Do you have <i>every</i> newspaper clipping?”</p>
<p>“Well, yeah.” Gage blinks and glances at Frank. “Why?”</p>
<p>“But,” Frank begins cautiously, a slow panic rising in his chest, “You’re missing the Roseville Gazette.”</p>
<p>“The… The Roseville Gazette?” Gage’s confusion is evident in his tone.</p>
<p>Frank jabs the article on the diner girl, letting out a nervous little laugh. “This paper is from the Calgary Post, but that <i>can’t</i> be right.”</p>
<p>“Um…” Gage follows Frank’s finger, staring at the photo of the smiling waitress. “Yeah. That’s one by Jed Olsen. He’s probably my favorite crime reporter. The way he writes—”</p>
<p>“Jed Olsen writes for the Roseville Gazette,” Frank angrily snaps, reeling back as if the paper had struck him. “He doesn’t <i>write</i> for the Calgary.”</p>
<p>For a long, long second, Gage doesn’t say a word. His piercing blue eyes are searching Frank’s, as if trying to unlock some hidden piece of a puzzle. Then, a bright smile slowly stretches across his features. Perhaps it’s meant to be comforting, but it only unnerves the younger dropout more. Frank’s heart is thumping loudly, so loudly he’s worried that Gage hears it. </p>
<p>Then the man says, not unkindly: “You’re sort of right. Jed used to write for the Roseville Gazette when he lived back in the states.”</p>
<p>Frank stares at him wordlessly.</p>
<p>That… that <i>couldn’t</i> be possible. When they met… he told him he worked for the Roseville Gazette. And the newspapers he was given— <i>fuck,</i> why had he gotten rid of most of the papers?! They had clearly said ‘Roseville Gazette’ on each one though. Frank definitely wasn’t wrong about that. He definitely wasn’t crazy.</p>
<p>“Oh,” says Frank faintly.</p>
<p>“Hey, are… are you okay?” Gage’s smile falls immediately, replaced with worry. Frank wants to claw it off his face. “You look sort of pale.”</p>
<p>“I… I’ve got to…” Frank doesn’t even finish his statement, before he pushes past the jock and bolts out the room. Every second he was still in this fucking house was suffocating, absolutely fucking suffocating.</p>
<p>“Uh! Okay!” Gage calls after him, “Feel better!”</p>
<p>
  <i>Why would Danny lie to him?!</i>
</p>
<p>That didn’t make any sense! They were <i>partners.</i> They trusted each other. It didn’t. make sense. He was just overthinking things, maybe. Frank’s shaking as he drives, unable to steady his hands even though he pleads at his body to still.</p>
<p>One thing was for certain: he couldn’t tell Danny that he knew about this. He had to keep focusing on the plan for now. The serial killer kept this from him for a reason, and he was going to fucking find out what it was.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">i hope everyone has a happy holidays !! if you don't celebrate christmas, i still hope your week is absolutely full of joy. 💕</span>
</p>
<p>  <span class="noted">thank you to my dear beta readers megidola and bwoo for taking the time to help me! i know this past week was crazy busy for everyone, including myself.</span></p>
<p>  <span class="noted">fun fact: i asked my siblings for a boy name. one said "gage" and the other said "preston". voilà!</span></p>
<p>  <span class="noted"><b>edit 01.11.21:</b> check out <a href="https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/777335118762999879/795752352375373845/image0.jpg">wonderful fanart</a> by multitalented <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/phos">phos</a> !! thank u so much !!</span></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. End of All Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frank hadn’t realized he had driven up to the closest payphone until he was parked in front of it. He lingers there for a moment or two, doing nothing but staring out into the streets of Ormond. He was right outside the bookstore that was supposedly so popular. It was almost bizarre to see people out and about: since the murder of McNamara, it was almost like Ormond had become a ghost town. He takes a deep breath, flexes his hands against the steering wheel. </p><p>The first thought that occurs to him once he collects himself is: <i>Shit. I probably shouldn’t have just ditched that guy.</i></p><p>Gage seemed gullible enough that he’d just take whatever excuse Frank decided to spoon-feed him. He probably just thought the younger dropout couldn’t handle his crazy Ghostface room. Frank scoffs. He was surprised that the jock hadn’t decided to dress up and play copycat killer— maybe he was just too stupid for that. Whatever. He hadn’t come up here just to escape the other man. He steps out of the car and goes up to the payphone. </p><p>His heart lurches as he notices that one side of it still has a tag from Joey: a skull outlined in a neon blue with x’s for its eyes. He traces the art with his fingers as he passes it, briefly wonders how the other teenager is doing, before he forcibly reminds himself that he doesn’t give a fuck. He snatches the black phone off its receiver, doing nothing for a brief second before he punches the zero.</p><p>The line rings before he hears: “Operator.”</p><p>Frank says nothing.</p><p>“Operator.”</p><p>The faintest of annoyance in the lady’s voice seems to snap Frank out of his trance. “Yeah. Hi.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Can you forward me to the Calgary Post?”</p><p>“One moment please.”</p><p>That moment is one of the longest of his life. He finds himself crowding closer inside the box, shifting his eyes to the side to make sure there weren’t any watchful eyes. He could still hang up. There was a possibility the newspaper wouldn’t even accept the charge and he’d hear nothing but a dial tone. Why is he hoping that’ll be the case?</p><p>There’s a pause on the other line, a click, and suddenly another woman’s voice comes through. She sounds much more youthful than the previous tired one: “This is the Calgary Post, Regina speaking. How can I help you?”</p><p>Frank nearly hangs up the phone right there and then, his heart beating like a drum. But he steadies himself. This wasn’t like him, to be so… worried. “Is Jed Olsen there?”</p><p>“Jed Olsen?” She parrots.</p><p>Hope flutters in his chest at her doubtful tone. “Yeah.”</p><p>“May I ask what’s this is regarding?”</p><p>“I…” Frank falters ever so slightly, but he grips the phone tighter. “I have an anonymous tip for him.”</p><p>The smallest amount of lingering hope crashes and burns the minute he’s put on hold, the minute the line is picked up again, and the minute he hears a familiar: “H-Hello! This is Jed Olsen.”</p><p>Frank hangs up without another word. </p><p>He almost expects Danny to somehow know that it was Frank who called. The entire drive back to his house, he waits for the black cellphone resting on the seat next to him to begin ringing. But nothing happens. Even if… Even if he <i>did</i> know, what would Danny even say? </p><p>
  <i>“Whoops, you caught me.” </i>
</p><p>The only Roseville Gazette that Frank still has was the newest one, detailing the death of that stupid cop. For once, he was almost grateful to him. He digs it out from under his bed— he hadn’t given it much of a glance since having been there was much more gratifying than reading a second-hand account. But the article on McNamara is not what interests him.</p><p>He flips through the newspaper, confirming his growing suspicions. While the front page had been dolled up to look like the Floridian newspaper, the rest of the pages were simply from the Calgary Post— the nail in the coffin being a weather forecast for Calgary. Frank laughs in bewilderment, sitting down on his chair. </p><p>Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.</p><p>So Danny <i>really</i> did lie to him. But what the fuck was the point of doing so? Was it <i>that</i> big of a deal that he worked at a different newspaper? Frank wouldn’t have batted an eye had Danny told him when they first met that he worked for the Calgary. Sure, he would have thought he was just some stupid American anyway, but it would have made <i>way</i> more sense for his cover.</p><p>…</p><p>Frank’s eyes narrow as he looks down at the small black-and-white letters below him. Something still didn’t feel right. He could have figured this out at any time, had he bothered to look through the other articles. Frank guesses he probably could have figured out the truth of the situation from the very first paper.</p><p>Danny made it this easy <i>on purpose.</i></p><p>Why? To fuck with him? Was that what this was? Just one, big, elaborate joke on him? Well. He wasn’t fucking laughing. Frank takes out the carton of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, plucking a stick out and lighting it up. He takes a deep drag and returns to the paper.</p><p>He’s not an idiot. He’s always known the man was an enigma. Maybe he shouldn’t even be this upset over being lied to: this was a man whose whole fucking identity was based around lies. He had known two different versions of him before <i>even meeting</i> the real man underneath the masks. </p><p>But he is fucking upset.</p><p>Yeah. He’s upset. As he continues looking at that stupid paper, there’s a fire raging in his stomach that boils his blood. He’s upset that he fucking fell for that whole “I trust you” bullshit. Because that <i>clearly</i> wasn’t the case. Frank has spent most of his life manipulating people, and he still couldn’t see when the wool was being pulled over his eyes. How pathetic.</p><p>Not only that, there was something <i>weird</i> about this whole situation. This felt like something bigger than just a joke. This all felt so deliberate. Danny didn’t do things without a reason, that much was for certain. Why would he have wasted so much time jerking Frank around? </p><p>He wasn’t going to get answers just by thinking about it, nor was he going to get any answers from the man himself. So alright. Danny had once warned him that playing with Ghostface was a dangerous game. Frank was aware of the rules now— and the serial killer wasn’t the only one who could pull the strings behind the scenes.</p><p>It's nighttime when Danny finally calls, just as Frank had expected. Frank makes sure to pick up on the first ring— Danny liked it when he did that.</p><p>“Hiya, Ghostie.” Frank makes sure to sound excited. He’s laying on his bed, one leg bent upwards. In one hand, he was fiddling with the golden elephant the man had gifted him. It shines under his ceiling light.</p><p>“Hiya, Partner.” As expected, he’s met with a pleased tone. “How did it go today?”</p><p>“I picked him up, we went to the diner. He gave me this sappy sob story about his hockey injury. Told him what he wanted to hear, all the fun stuff.” Frank definitely couldn’t go into details about the latter half of his visit.</p><p>“Hm,” Danny says flatly, after a momentary quiet between the two, “Is that all?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Frank replies with ease, though he sounds irritated, “Turns out he had another playdate with some other friend and we couldn’t hang out more.”</p><p>“With who?” Danny asks.</p><p>“You know that lady who hit on you in the diner?” Danny answers him with a little ‘uh-huh’. “Her. They’re exes.”</p><p>“That’s a pity,” Danny sighs, but his voice becomes warm once more, “But oh well. Things can’t go perfectly every time, don’t beat yourself up about it.”</p><p>
  <i>‘I wasn’t.’ </i>
</p><p>“I won’t.” Frank waits for a bit to see if the man had anything else to say, before continuing cautiously: “Hey… Danny?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Clive and I sort of got into a fight the other day. He’s been a real pain in the ass lately,” Frank rolls onto his side, holding the elephant by its trunk and dangling it off the bed. “Would it be stupid if I stayed with you for a few nights?”</p><p>This catches the killer’s interest. “Oh?”</p><p>“Yeah… he’s bugging me about talking to my friends.”</p><p>“Why?” Frank didn’t think he imagined that the killer’s voice hardened with the question.</p><p>“I don’t know. Says I’m running away from my problems or some bullshit.”</p><p>“He’s one to talk,” Danny’s voice returns to amusement, and Frank has a feeling that the man thought the whole predicament was hilarious.</p><p>“Right?” Frank rolls his eyes. “And I’m really <i>fucking</i> sick of having to hear it. I’m one more lecture away from blowing my brains out.” </p><p>This causes the man to laugh and it sends a shiver up Frank’s spine.</p><p>“We wouldn’t have to keep doing these calls, either,” Frank continues his sales pitch, “I can just tell you everything face-to-face.”</p><p>“Plus,” Danny says, thoughtfully, “We could probably fuck more.”</p><p>Frank snorts, letting the elephant fall on the ugly filthy tan carpet. “Yeah, that too.”</p><p>“Listen, baby. <i>Of course,</i> you can stay with me.”</p><p>“Really? You don’t mind?” Frank asks, hopefully.</p><p>There’s a shuffling noise at the end. “You can stay as long as you’d like,” Danny tells him, soothingly, “We’re going to be together pretty much all the time once we hit the road, anyway.”</p><p>Frank sucks in his breath, making sure to keep the noise inaudible. Despite everything, truthfully, he did still want to go with Danny. From the second he stepped foot in this shitty little mountain town, all he wanted to do was escape. He didn’t want to be like Gage— like he’s in a bad dream where his feet are trapped and he can’t move.</p><p>But he knew that depending on why Danny kept this from him, he wouldn’t be able to rely on the other killer to free him from this imprisonment. If worse came to shove, he still had the jar. He could go wherever he wanted. … <i>Alone</i>…</p><p>“What are you doing, anyway?” Which is Frank’s awful attempt to steer the conversation away from that line of thought. </p><p>“Ah, just working on an article.”</p><p>Frank blinks at the casual way Danny spoke. “But we haven’t killed the guy yet.”</p><p>“Baby, it’s important to me that you know I don’t just write articles about Ghostface. Other crimes happen, you know.”</p><p>“In… In Florida?” Frank tries, trying to coax the big secret from Danny’s own mouth.</p><p>“Yes, crimes <i>do</i> happen in Florida,” Danny answers distractedly, and when Frank strains his ear, he can make out the flipping of pages. It was clear the killer was finished with this conversation— and Frank is left feeling crappy, like it was his fault.</p><p>“Oh,” Frank mumbles at the non-answer.</p><p>“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, then?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Frank lies on his back again, staring up at the dying ceiling light. He nods into the phone, despite knowing the killer can’t see him. “Yeah. Sounds good.”</p><p>“Night night, baby boy.”</p><p>With that, Frank is left with a dial tone. He shuts the phone and it dawns on him that the other killer never gave him a time to meet. This makes him chuckle, makes him feel inadequate— like if Danny thought Frank’s whole world suddenly revolved around him. </p><p>No way he seriously thought that little of him,<i> right?</i></p><p>It didn’t matter. He had got what he wanted out of Danny— the killer was so certain that he had Frank wrapped around his finger, but how easy had it been to play to his ego. He supposed they were the same in that regard: Danny’s sweet little words had intoxicated Frank, after all.</p><p>If Danny was lying about something so trivial as the newspaper, what else was he lying about? Was he <i>really</i> Danny Johnson? Did he even give a shit about Frank at all? Or was he just leading him on, a lamb to the slaughter? Maybe Gage wasn’t going to be the last murder in Ormond after all.</p><p>It is this plethora of thoughts that are still plaguing him as he and Gage sit on the roof of his car the next day. It was a small town and there weren’t many places to go, so he had driven them out to an abandoned parking lot.</p><p>They had cracked open some beers Gage had bought for them, and although the two Spartans had held a lengthy conversation— Frank could not recall any of it.</p><p>The sky wasn’t cloudy for the first time in a while, a bright and pretty blue. He’s reminded of Susie’s eyes. He takes a swig of the bitter-tasting brew— it’s cheap shit, tastes worse than the smell of Danny’s cologne, and looks like piss. But he’s drunk enough off them that they’ve started to taste alright.</p><p>He crushes his fourth can and tosses it to the ground. It clatters against the others. Gage just laughs at the action.</p><p>“Hey, about yesterday…” Gage begins and Frank raises a hand to silence him. </p><p>“I promise, it wasn’t because of your weird-ass shrine. I just think the food didn’t sit right with me.”</p><p>Gage ponders this. “I think Carol spit in your food,” he admits with a little wince, “What’d you do to rile her up so bad?”</p><p>“Not my fault she’s a major bitch,” Frank shoots back.</p><p>“Fair enough,” The former jock snorts, “Yeah. She’s always been like that. Loves too hard and hates just as viciously.” He smiles down at the brown and red can in his hand. “She never means anything bad, though.”</p><p>Frank softens just a bit at that. There was a bittersweetness in Gage’s words and he gets the feeling that he wasn’t the one who ended things. But the way he speaks about her reminds him of Julie, of how fondly Frank listened to her blunt words that were meant with genuine care.</p><p>But… But he doesn’t give a <i>fuck</i> about her anymore. She obviously didn’t give a fuck about him. It was like Danny had said—</p><p>He grinds his teeth together to stop him from clamping down on his tongue in irritation. Fuck what Danny said. Frank was angry at her because <i>he</i> knew he was in the right. It had nothing to do with what the serial killer had said. She’d been so quick to just get up and leave him over a simple misunderstanding. And that was that.</p><p>When he doesn’t reply, Gage mistakes this as anger towards the waitress. The jock leans back, placing his free palm flat against the car as he stares up at the cloudless sky. “Hey, who knows? Maybe one day, the two of you will be really good friends.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Frank questions, doubtfully.</p><p>“Sure!” Gage grins at him. “Tell you what.” He gestures the can towards him. “Next time we go to the diner, I’ll reintroduce you. Or we can all go to the movies sometime.”</p><p>Frank cracks open another can, takes a big gulp because he can’t exactly tell the other man that there <i>wasn’t going to be a next time.</i></p><p>Instead, he indulges him: “What would we go see?”</p><p>Gage thinks this over for a moment. “There’s that new Jurassic Park?”</p><p>“How many times can they resurrect dinosaurs?” Frank complains.</p><p>“That—” Gage starts, sharply as if offended, before he just laughs. “I don’t think that’s gonna be the plot of <i>this</i> one.”</p><p>“Whatever,” Frank mutters, really hoping the other dropout wasn’t about to divulge the entire storyline to him. He’d seen the first one and that was plenty enough for him. The effects were cool and all, but dinosaurs just weren’t scary.</p><p>“I guess we’ll just have to see what’s playing when we get there,” Gage concedes, the smile never fading off his face.</p><p>“Do you think she would actually like me?”</p><p>“Well, sure.” Gage blinks. “Why not?”</p><p>“This may be surprising,” Frank tells him dryly, “But not many people do.”</p><p>The former jock shrugs. “It’s their loss, man.” Gage goes back to drinking his beer. Frank studies him. He said it so easily, like he didn’t even have to think about it. The younger dropout almost cracks a smile— he wonders if he’d still like him once Frank’s knife was in him.</p><p>“Do you ever think about dying?” Frank asks, bluntly.</p><p>Gage furrows his brows. “Man, how many drinks have you <i>had?”</i></p><p>“Just.” Frank irritably rasps his knuckles against his car. “Do you?”</p><p>“I try not to…” Gage replies, the smile finally gone from his face. “You know, when people have a near-death experience… They always say they live life to the fullest afterwards, right? Well. I haven’t. So thinking about just dropping dead… Isn’t exactly my idea of a good time.”</p><p>“I don’t think anyone just <i>wants</i> to drop dead.”</p><p>“But… but you?” Gage is regarding him carefully, with concern and caution in his tone. “You do?”</p><p>There is a long silence between the two. Frank shakes his head, but his eyes have fallen to his scarred hands. “No.”</p><p>Gage nods, uncharacteristically solemn. “Death is fucking scary. It’s the end of all things, you know? One day you’re here, the next you’re not. You’ll never know what your loved ones will say about you, or what you could have accomplished.”</p><p>“I’m not afraid of death,” Frank states. It’s not meant to be a boast. It’s just that it would be stupid to be afraid of something he’s caused. He might have been afraid of it once, a long time ago. At least— it feels like another lifetime ago.</p><p>“It’s that devil-may-care attitude,” Gage says, playfully, bumping shoulders with the other dropout. He was clearly trying to lighten the mood.</p><p>Frank takes in Gage: the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes, the way his face has grown pink from the beer, how his piercing blue eyes reflect the sunlight. Even with the miserable hands he was dealt, he was alive and he was enjoying it. Wasn’t that pathetic? Wasn’t that so stupid? <i>How can someone be so disgustingly optimistic?</i></p><p>“Besides,” Gage continues, “I haven’t even started my bucket list.”</p><p>“Huh? What’s that?”</p><p>“You don’t know what a—” Gage stops short before he glances upwards at the sky. “It’s like… a list of things you want to do before you die.”</p><p>“What do you want to do?” Frank takes another sip of his beer. He was getting sick of the taste.</p><p>“Uhh, well. One of them was winning the Stanley Cup, but I don’t think that’ll happen anymore. I don’t know... visit The Great Wall, move to Hawaii, get married, see the top of Mount Ormond—”</p><p>“Wait,” Frank cuts in, incredulous, “You’ve <i>never</i> been to the top of Mount Ormond?”</p><p>Embarrassed by this, Gage shakes his head.</p><p>“I thought you lived here your whole life?”</p><p>“I have. I just, I don’t know.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve never been.”</p><p>“But that’s the only interesting place in this shithole!” Frank exclaims.</p><p>“I know!” Gage shouts back.</p><p>“Okay.” Frank slides off the roof of the car, tossing the nearly full beer can with the others. It tips over, spilling all its contents onto the concrete. “Get the fuck in the car.”</p><p>Gage stares down at him with wide eyes. “Wait. Why?”</p><p>“Why do you think, moron? I’m taking you up there.”</p><p>“Right now?” Gage timidly questions, not coming down from the rust bucket. Frank glares up at him. Nothing annoyed him more than a stupid question.</p><p>“Get in the car before I kill you,” he snaps. The older dropout, caught off-guard by his words, lands gracefully on his feet. He opens the side door and gets into his seat before Frank can make good on his threat.</p><p>“You know, a bucket list isn’t meant to be done—”</p><p>“What’s stopping you?” Frank curtly asks as he enters the driver seat.</p><p>Gage kind of gawks at him. Like what Frank just said was this brand new revelation. Christ. He hates the way he’s staring— it’s how the Legion <i>used</i> to look at him. Like he was some sort of prophet. Maybe that would have appealed to him, once upon a time. But right now, he’s half-drunk and he hates that fucking look.</p><p>So instead of looking at Gage, he focuses on tearing across the lot. Gage lets out a shriek, grips the ceiling handle like his very life depends on it. Frank laughs uproariously at his reaction, presses play on the stereo, let’s the heavy metal overtake them both.</p><p>He didn’t think he’d be up here again, but it’s as if the mountain is beckoning for him: darkness enshrouded the trees and the rocky pathing below them. Gage doesn’t notice this, doesn’t notice the way the shadows extend towards the car as if trying to snatch them up. Nor does he notice the stench of death that fills the air, which makes Frank’s eyes water and forces him to roll up the window. The mixtape skips a track, or maybe that was just because Frank wasn’t paying attention to the music anymore.</p><p><i>“Frank,”</i> something within the trees seems to whisper, <i>“When are you joining us?”</i></p><p>Or maybe it’s just the alcohol in his system talking.</p><p>He doesn’t stop by the lodge, continues the drive up the mountain. He takes an alternate route away from where McNamara’s car is parked, though part of him wishes he can stop to take a look at it— see if nature has reclaimed its sacrifice.</p><p>It was rumored that going up to the summit of Mount Ormond was dangerous, due to all the explosives that had been left abandoned by a mining company. That never stopped The Legion before, and it certainly wasn’t going to stop Frank now. He parks his car on the slope just below the mountaintop and turns to Gage with a mischievous grin. </p><p>“Well?”</p><p>“I think I’m gonna hurl,” Gage moans, but steps out of the car. Frank follows after him. Luckily for the both of them, the older dropout is able to contain the contents in his stomach. What a pussy— Frank wasn’t even going <i>that</i> fast.</p><p>The two begin their short trek to the summit. Frank warns him not to set off the bombs that were directly buried beneath their feet, and when Gage nervously begins to look around, he can no longer contain his laughter. The older dropout punches his shoulder, but Frank still takes a bit to recompose himself, nearly bowling over from his fit.</p><p>At the highest point of Mount Ormond, there is absolutely nothing. It was more eye-catching in the wintertime when the snow would blanket the area. Right now, there was no such beauty. It’s just boring and brown and there are some stubborn blades of grass trying to peek out. Maybe bringing him here hadn’t been the best idea after all. He stuffs his hands into his jacket, watching as Gage surveys the area.</p><p><i>“Holy shit,”</i> Gage breathes.</p><p>“What?” Frank asks, suspiciously.</p><p>Gage steps past him, staring out below the mountain. Frank could have easily pushed him, let him plummet to his doom. Instead, he trails after him, takes in the view alongside him. “Ormond looks so <i>small</i> from up here.”</p><p>Frank couldn’t make out individual buildings, just different colored specks. From up here, everything he was worried about was so far away— so tiny and meaningless. Those traitors that abandoned him don’t matter, the liar waiting for him didn’t matter. He plops down and the older dropout sits down next to him, their legs swinging off the cliff. The two stay like that for a while, just admiring the view from so high up. It felt good to have company.</p><p>“There’s one item off your bucket list,” Frank tells him, finally breaking the silence.</p><p>“Yeah.” Preston returns this with a small, warm smile. “Thanks for dragging me out here.”</p><p>They return to their comfortable quiet.</p><p>Frank’s sobered up by the time he returns home, the sun having already begun to set. It was a good thing that he had— because waiting for him on his bed is Danny. Frank closes the door behind him— Clive wasn’t home yet, but he wasn’t taking any chances.</p><p>“Finally,” Danny says, as he rises and makes his way towards the dropout. He’s dressed in an oversized black sweater and his glasses were hanging on the collar. His hair was still pushed back, probably having just come off of work. Frank notices a black duffle bag on the corner of the bed. “What took you so long?”</p><p>“You didn’t exactly tell me when you were coming,” Frank points out, but shuts up when Danny’s arms encircle him. The older man drags him closer, kissing him deeply. Frank returns the kiss.</p><p>“Didn’t think you’d manage to be out so long,” Danny sneers as he pulls away, “What? Were you off sucking our victim’s cock?”</p><p>Frank flips him off and jerks his head towards the duffle bag. “What’s with that?”</p><p>“Mmm, I got bored of waiting around so I just packed for you.” Danny picks it up and shrugs it over his shoulder with ease. </p><p>Frank frowns. “You… <i>packed</i> for me?” Maybe if this had happened the other day, he would have been touched. Now he’s not sure what he feels. He doesn’t move as the killer moves back over to him, eyes still fixated on the bag. Danny raises an eyebrow at the dropout’s off-put reaction.</p><p>“Did you want to waste time packing?” Danny asks, and though his tone remains airy, his eyes glint sharper than before. “What if your foster dad came in? Do you want to explain what I’m doing here?”</p><p>“No,” Frank admits, quietly.</p><p>Danny lets out a smug little hum, and the two brush shoulders as he breezes past the dropout. Frank lingers in his room a moment, as if that would help him figure out what the other took, before he trails behind him. As per last time, everything had been cleaned up. The jar of money had remained right where Frank had left it, but the golden elephant was now leaning against it.</p><p>“So,” Danny asks him softly once they’ve begun their drive to the motel, “Are you doing alright? Your foster dad didn’t fuck with you too much, did he?” Frank shakes his head wordlessly and Danny glances towards him. “Well, <i>something</i> happened. Normally, you can’t shut up.”</p><p>Frank mentally smacks himself. He’s supposed to seem like everything is alright, but being around the serial killer in such an enclosed space has him tongue-tied. “Guess I’m just kind of tired, long day and all.” He shakes the nervousness off of him. He has to keep calm, it was all part of the plan: “How’s the article going?”</p><p>“Don’t <i>we</i> sound domestic?” Danny chuckles, returning his gaze to the road.</p><p>“Oh right,” Frank sighs as he slumps in his seat, “I forgot. We’re only allowed to talk about murder, I guess.”</p><p>Danny smirks, amused by the other’s overdramatics. “It’s boring, but you know. Gotta keep up appearances.” He waves his hand dismissively. “It doesn’t really matter. It’s not the worst place I’ve ever worked. My coworkers are morons, but that comes with the territory.”</p><p>“What was the worst place?” Frank finds himself genuinely curious.</p><p>The serial killer thinks for a moment as if mentally running down a list. “Hmm, definitely Pennsylvania.”</p><p>“...Is that a state?”</p><p>Danny snorts. “Yeah. After Utah, I moved up there for a while. I was still new to the reporting gig and everyone made sure to remind me.” Danny’s smirk grows into a grin. “I killed off their top crime reporter, ended up getting her job. Well. Guess thinking back, it wasn’t all bad.”</p><p>“Where do you rank Florida?” Frank asks.</p><p><i>‘Come on, Danny. Work with me. Slip up. Do something,’</i> he finds himself inwardly pleading.</p><p>“Forgettable, really. But I’d rather have you call me Florida than Pennsylvania.”</p><p>Frank clicks his tongue, annoyed by the vague answer. Was Danny doing this on purpose? And if he was doing it purposely, did he already know that Frank knew? But how? No. That wasn’t possible. There was no use overthinking right now. He had to keep a cool head if this was going to work.</p><p>Knowing he’s stayed quiet too long, Frank says: “I don’t even think I can say that.”</p><p>“It’s not worth learning,” Danny assures him, “Just wait till you hear about Massachusetts.”</p><p><i>“Jesus.”</i> Frank still hasn’t straightened himself up, so he glances up at Danny. “You guys just throw random letters together in the states?”</p><p>“I’m not hearing that from you— your country has Saskatchewan.”</p><p>“That’s easy to say,” Frank argues, just to be a little shit. Danny scoffs in disbelief and Frank can’t help the smile that appears on his face. It’s almost like nothing was going on between them— even the uneasiness that had built up within him has begun to crack.</p><p>By the time they make it to the motel, Frank’s almost forgotten what he was so worked up over. Almost. They park in front of Danny’s room and his heart thumps with a renewed adrenaline. But he could do this. Danny, the true gentleman that he was, takes the bag for Frank as the two walk up to his room.</p><p>
  <i>“Ah! Mr. King!”</i>
</p><p>Frank pauses, turns to see a little old lady with round purple glasses and frizzy white hair. She’s closing up one of the rooms further down but has waved to them. He recognizes her from the few times he’s rented a motel room before— she was the owner. Danny blinks, stops opening the door midway. </p><p>“Is she talking to us?” Frank mutters to him and the killer shrugs.</p><p>The lady walks closer to them and Danny swings the door open. “Don’t really want her to see me bringing company,” he tells Frank, “Mind going in?” </p><p>Frank obliges his request, entering the room. Danny closes the door slightly behind him, still holding onto the knob. The dropout subtly peers through the curtain as she stops in front of the serial killer.</p><p>“Oh!” She adjusts her glasses. “Mr. Olsen!”</p><p>“Ah, h-hello Sheila!” Although he can’t see the other man, Danny’s voice has become Florida’s higher-pitched, nervous one. “I’m sorry. Were you… Were you talking to me?”</p><p>“I must have been,” she replies, sheepishly. She squints at him. “I’m sorry, dear. From a distance, you really <i>do</i> look like Mr. King. It might be time for a better prescription.”</p><p>“D-don’t worry, it’s not a big deal.”</p><p>She shakes her head and Frank has an image of a lion shaking his mane. “Well, if you <i>do</i> see Mr. King, can you tell him I need to speak to him?”</p><p>“Sure! Of course! If I see him, I’ll… I’ll let him k-know.”</p><p>She thanks him and turns to leave, causing Frank to move away from the curtain. He takes his place on the bed furthest from the door, kicking up his feet as if he had been there the whole time. Danny enters a short minute later, closing and locking the door behind him.</p><p>“What was <i>that</i> about?” Frank sits up, propping himself up on his elbows.</p><p>“She confused me with one of the other tenants,” Danny explains with a shrug, setting the bag down next to Frank. “Dumb bitch is blind as a bat.” He reaches up, tussles his hair so it returns to its usual style before he glances at the dropout. “You hungry?”</p><p>“Uh,” Frank hadn’t expected Danny to just <i>tell</i> him what happened, “Nah, I’m good.”</p><p>“Suit yourself, just make yourself at home I suppose— I have to finish up the article.”</p><p>It doesn’t take Frank that long to unpack what Danny had brought him, putting the clothes away in the drawers Danny had emptied for him. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but the man had made practical choices in what he selected: such as his usual attire and of course, his mask and knife. </p><p>Despite Frank’s insistence that he wasn’t hungry, the two of them eat instant noodles before they settle down— They’ve changed into comfortable clothing, Frank’s finishing up <i>Taxi Driver,</i> which he had left at the motel on a prior visit, and Danny is at his desk. Frank’s only half paying attention to the film, more focused on the other man.</p><p>Just paying attention to the way the sound of Danny’s pen scratches against the sheets of paper, how focused he is— never even glancing up to take a look at the film even as Frank hears him mutter some of the iconic lines. For not caring about what he was writing, it certainly didn’t appear <i>that</i> way.  It kind of causes a lump in Frank’s throat.</p><p>It’s a movie and a half later when Danny finally pushes himself away from the desk, tilting the chair back as he did so. “You know,” and Frank is slightly shocked to hear drowsiness twinging  his words, “The book is a lot better.”</p><p>Frank realizes he’s talking about the film that was playing. “Really?”</p><p>“Mm, yeah,” Danny chews on the pen, turning his attention to the screen. “They changed Christine’s origins, so the whole film is weird because of it. But the effects are good, so there’s one thing it has going for it.”</p><p>“It’s a dumb premise anyway,” Frank says, as he gets off the bed and goes over the VHS player. He stops the film, taking it out. Danny watches him with interest and the dropout turns to him. “Does that mean you’re finally done?”</p><p>“Pretty much. Murder-suicides— boring to write about. You know they actually thought it was a Ghostface crime?” He flicks the pen onto the desk.</p><p>“So what,” Frank chuckles as he returns to lay on the bed, “If we ever get caught, you don’t wanna pull a Thelma and Louise?”</p><p>Danny’s expression twists into something unreadable for merely a second, before he gives an airy laugh. <i>“Maybe</i> I’d drive off a cliff with you, baby.” He gets off the chair then, joining Frank and snagging a kiss.</p><p>“You’re such a liar,” Frank mutters against his lips before they kiss once more. He’s never going to admit it out loud, but he missed this. Danny is about to get off him when Frank panics and grabs his shirt collar. The man looks back at him with an unreadable expression. “You know— uh, we haven’t <i>seen</i> each other in a while.”</p><p>“Normally,” Danny purrs, seeming more than delighted with the dropout’s actions, “I’d be happy to, but I’m—”</p><p>“Come on,” Frank murmurs as his hand crawls up the killer’s neck, to his cheek, to draw him closer. The adrenaline is coursing through his veins again and he worries Danny can hear just how fearfully his heart is racing. They kiss once more, and the dropout tells him: “You had me sitting around for <i>hours.</i> Let me have some fun.”</p><p>The intensity of Danny’s gaze burns stronger than a cigarette. Frank meets those greys steadily, hoping that by thinking of their other encounters, hunger would show in his own. The other man may have been tired, but if Frank was going to search the room like he wanted— he needed to make sure the serial killer was completely knocked out.</p><p>“I’m certainly not going to stop you,” Danny whispers, laying back on the bed, “From doing whatever it is <i>you</i> want to do.”</p><p>Frank grins wolfishly and gets to work. It’s a lot different from the first time they’d fucked— he’s had a lot more practice now. The dropout pulls his shirt over his head. He doesn’t make it a show, no. When he sees the killer under him, all smug despite his exhaustion, it’s like all the anger of the newspaper comes rushing back to him. </p><p>And it’s really fucking irritating because his own dick is already half-hard. </p><p>He straddles the killer, leg on either side of him, leaning over him to grab the lube. When he pulls back, Danny arches his neck upwards and drags the dropout into another kiss: this one feels like a battle, like it’s no longer just a game to the serial killer. It’s a clashing of teeth and tongue and power.</p><p>Frank is released from it, breathing hard now, before he grinds himself against the killer. He groans at the sensation and quickens his pace. The dropout bends his head downwards, mouthing the crook of Danny’s neck. When Danny snorts at this action, he nips his skin. Not as roughly as the killer did to him previously, but enough to shut him up.</p><p>His hands trail up under the man’s shirt, running his nails up against the bare skin. He feels the bump of a scar and he presses his nail deeper into it, gaining a pleased hiss from Danny. A wave of satisfaction courses through him, though Frank isn’t sure if it’s from causing the other pain or pleasure. </p><p>He grips the corners of Danny’s shirt and pulls it off him, enthralled with the red marks he’s left on his skin. Frank’s hands roam across the man’s body and his mouth follows suit. The dropout has a feeling that Danny wouldn’t be too happy being left with lovebites, so he bites down just enough for the other to feel it. To feel the bottled up emotions that Frank can’t possibly begin to tell him. </p><p>And Danny might be controlled, but his body gives away just how badly Frank is affecting him. It’s flushed a dark pink in color and when Frank moves his hips away to slip off the rest of his clothing, a frustrated groan slips out from the killer.</p><p>“I want you inside me,” Frank’s voice is low and dipped in arousal.</p><p>“If you want it, take it,” Danny tells him and slicks his fingers with the lube. With his other hand, he snags Frank’s hip in order to steady him. Frank leans forward, moaning against his lips as Danny slides a finger inside him. A few fingers more enter him as Frank continues to kiss the killer, hoping he’ll bruise the man’s lips.</p><p>Once the two of them are certain Frank’s been prepared enough, the dropout pulls away from him, sliding the man’s sweats downwards and freeing his cock. He gives it a quick jerk that makes Danny tilt his head back and flutters his eyes close. Frank smirks at this.</p><p>The dropout takes his time inserting Danny’s cock inside of him, gasping and moaning as it goes in deeper and deeper. “F-fuck,” he stutters out, “Fuck, Danny.”</p><p>“You look so good right now,” Danny whispers, slightly strained like he’s still trying to keep himself composed. He’s still holding him tight, taking in the sight. “Wish I had my camera.”</p><p>The praise feels so fucking good holy shit and even though he’s not being touched, his cock twitches. He allows himself a chance to fully adjust before he begins to move up and down. At first, the pace is tantalizingly slow as he gets used to the rhythm. Danny cannot give the younger killer full reign, beginning to thrust his own hips upwards in time with Frank.</p><p>The two continue this dance, increasing their pace and Frank is tilting his head back and not giving a fuck about what noises he’s making. This only serves to arouse the other man more, who takes the dropout’s member in his free hand and begins to pump him up and down.</p><p>“You love making me feel good, don’t you?” Danny asks, tauntingly, breathless.</p><p>Frank doesn’t have to reply, because they both know the answer. They fuck with vigor and there’s no room for any gentle words or soft touches. It’s as if they’re hellbent on destroying one another, both of them so lost in the battle that Frank has waged, though there’s no clear winner.</p><p>It’s not much longer before the dropout cums over their bare stomachs and Danny follows suit, filling Frank with his seed. The two of them bask in their euphoric aftermath. Frank takes everything Danny gives him, gasping for air. The serial killer reaches around his neck and drags his face down to meet him. </p><p>Their eyes lock on to one another: Frank is once again sucked into the void of Danny’s eyes, mesmerized by how endless they seemed to be. Yet, no matter how hard he tries, he can not make out what the other is feeling. When Danny kisses him again, it is tender. It’s like Frank’s entered this dreamlike state, but Danny moves away only after a moment.</p><p>The two clean up after themselves and after a quick shower, Frank finds himself once again in Danny’s arms. The serial killer is pressed against him, his face nuzzled in his neck. Frank wonders, as he listens to the man’s steady breathing, if everything he said was a lie.</p><p>Because it’d be really fucked up to hold someone like this and not care for them.</p><p>He can tell Danny has fallen in a slumber when his breathing deepens, but Frank waits patiently. He watches the time tick by on the bedside clock: two am, three am, before he finally untangles himself from the other man. He takes his time with his movements, careful not to make a wrong move and stir the other man awake.</p><p>When he gets off the bed, Frank regards the sleeping figure for a long moment. Part of him is tempted to just crawl back in, forget that he was going to do this, but he pushes that want away. He had to focus, he had to get rid of this uncertainty once and for all. Time was of the essence and this needed to be done without alerting the serial killer.</p><p>Frank begins at the desk. He takes a great deal of caution when opening the drawers, rifling through the loose stationery as quietly as he can. There’s nothing that seems out of the ordinary for a reporter to have: just some field notes and other miscellaneous things Frank can’t concern himself with. He does note, however, that this was all work for the Calgary Post.</p><p>On the top of the desk is still the article Danny was working on, and he notices a few photos from the scene of the crime above it— the man was probably trying to figure out a proper layout. Frank hears a rustle and he glances behind his shoulder—</p><p>But Danny is still sleeping.</p><p>Frank swallows and pats down the oversized tan coat hung over the chair. In one of the pockets was the man’s slim leather wallet. He’s expecting multiple ids, but there is only one: it has a smiling picture of Jed Olsen, a Florida driver’s license. The wallet mostly contains cash, though there is a single credit card under the alias’ name.</p><p>There is no mention of Danny Johnson anywhere. Frank wonders if the man seriously went around carrying different wallets with each new identity. He gently slips the item back into the coat pocket. </p><p>He breezes past the bed, making his way to the drawers of the large dresser against the wall. Frank pulls them open one by one: there are no signs that Ghostface even <i>existed</i> here. It was just like when he first came to the motel and saw everything for the first time.</p><p>Frank wasn’t sure what he was expecting to find, but nothing wasn’t quite it. He digs under the clothes in the very bottom dresser, confirming his suspicions about the existence of another wallet. This one contained the id for Danny Johnson.</p><p>It wasn’t as new as the one Florida had. He looks around but doesn’t find any more wallets. If Florida was his newest one, that must mean that he had other aliases when he was in the states. Out of all his identities, why did Danny bring Jed Olsen? Why wouldn’t he have made a new alias?</p><p>Maybe Danny had to rush out of Florida? Frank puts the wallet back under the pile of socks, closes the drawer. Maybe he only got his job at the Calgary Post around the time of the diner girl’s murder? Which is why he didn’t have an updated business card?</p><p><i>Fuck.</i> He messes up his hair from his mounting frustration. This was going nowhere— all of these were just dumb theories without any type of meaning to them. </p><p>
  <i>… Unless…</i>
</p><p>He goes to Danny’s bed, only a few inches away from the killer. His heart is racing. It’s possible it won’t even be here, somehow he’s able to hide all his Ghostface shit <i>somewhere,</i> but he’s seen the man slip it in the drawer before.</p><p>He slowly bends down, pulls open the bottom drawer. And there it is. The little black notebook. Frank bites his lower lip, afraid that if he reaches for it the killer will snatch his wrist like in all the horror films. He waits, stares at Danny, but the man is still sleeping.</p><p>Okay. It’s now or never.</p><p>Frank holds the book like it’s the Holy Grail, slowly cracking it open. Danny still hasn’t moved. He thumbs through the pages, eyes widening. <i>Holy shit.</i> The man’s stalked most of the fucking town— each person has a photo, has a name, and some notes about them.</p><p>He goes page by page, with quick nervous glances towards Danny, and finds a page for each member of The Legion. The handwriting is so sloppy and illegible, he can’t make out anything— especially not with the only lighting coming from the moon through the curtains.</p><p>He expects to find himself, flipping through Joey, then Susie, then Julie, but the next page… Is torn out. Frank doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t think he remembers how. He stares at where the page should have been, the torn edges mocking him. </p><p>Did Danny know? </p><p>Did Danny know he’d look for himself?</p><p>What did the page have on it that made the serial killer rip it out, keeping it from prying eyes? Frank doesn’t know, he’s not even sure if he <i>wants</i> to know. He puts the journal back, using his fingertips to slide the drawer close. It barely makes a noise, not enough to wake anyone up.</p><p>Frank rises back to his feet, picks up the carton of cigarettes and his lighter on the top of the bedside dresser, and exits the room. He leans against the brick wall, in between Danny’s room and the neighbor’s, lighting up the stick and taking a long drag.</p><p>The full moon is staring down at him. He stares back.</p><p>When he’s finished with the cigarette, he crushes it underneath his foot and lights up a new one. He’s surprised no one’s come to yell at him about the smell.</p><p>Frank eyes the room next door. As always, it read: <i>Occupied.</i> He clenches his teeth around the stick. Thinking back now, he doesn’t think he’s ever heard anyone in the next room. Were they just… quiet people? Or...?</p><p>He’s about to step towards it when he hears a: “Hey.”</p><p>Frank glances towards the doorway of Danny’s motel room, seeing the serial killer leaning against it. </p><p>“What are you doing up?” He questions.</p><p>“I could ask you the same thing,” Danny points out.</p><p>Frank hesitates, turns his attention back to the moon. “I don’t know. I couldn’t sleep.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Danny tilts his head. “What’s on your mind, baby blue?”</p><p>“You know,” Frank tells him, though he does not look at him, “People say that death is the end of all things. That’s why they’re so afraid of it. Once it’s over, that’s it. There’s no coming back.”</p><p>Danny laughs and the wind carries it into the night. “Doesn’t that just make it all the more exciting?”</p><p>Frank shrugs.</p><p>“A lot of people get scared,” Danny says, “When they pull the death card in a tarot reading. They think it spells their literal death. But it can also mean a major change in their life.”</p><p>Frank fixes his stare on Danny, who stares right back. Even under the moonlight, the serial killer’s eyes have no shine to them. The dropout blows out smoke and replies: </p><p>“Some people are afraid of that too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">it's my birthday on wednesday !! i'll be twenty-four, the same age as gage. that's sort of crazy to think about, huh?</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">i'm also celebrating something else: with the posting of this chapter, this fic will now have a word count of 100k+! i've never written 100k in my entire LIFE. and it's so surreal. thank you all for sticking around, i really appreciate you. 💕</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">whew, this week has been majorly busy- i wrote another ghostfrank fic and i gotta tell you. it was so jarring coming back to writing for our frank. it's like i was stuck in his pov for so long, i sort of forgot how absolutely fucking crazy this kid is. anyways, haha. i had a lot of fun writing this chapter over the course of the weekend!!</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">thank u as always to my lovely beta readers megidola and bwoo for all your help!!</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">see you guys in the new year!</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Farewell to Ormond</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It begins with a drink.</p>
<p>Then two. Then three.</p>
<p>He knows he shouldn’t be here right now and he’s <i>thinking</i> that as he slams down the fourth shot. The liquid is molten lava as it slides down his throat and he should be used to it by now, but he never is. He clears his throat and the bartender gives him a <i>look</i> before she goes to serve other patrons. Why does she look at him like that? Like he’s some type of loser?</p>
<p>You know, he used to be incredibly popular. He had girls hanging on his every word, cheering him on in all his games. But she looks at him like he’s ordinary and pathetic. He stares down at the empty glass: on its bottom, he can barely make out his own reflection. Maybe it’s the vodka, but he struggles to recognize himself. </p>
<p>So this is what he’s amounted to, huh? He shakes his head a little, putting his arms on the table and resting his chin. He… He <i>is</i> a loser. He’s been a loser all his life and no amount of trophies and medals and false bravados could have ever fixed that. Today he was fired from his job— well, not so much a job than a volunteer position— said they smelled alcohol on his breath.</p>
<p><i>Bullshit,</i> of course. He never went into work drunk. God. He used to be so cool. The old Gage Preston would have fought back: demanded to plead his case. But what did he do? He bowed his head and apologized and trailed off without another word. A fucking loser, indeed. He raises his hand, orders another shot with the money he <i>should</i> be saving. </p>
<p>Tomorrow, he’ll begin his job hunt again. Tomorrow, he’ll get back on his feet. Because that’s what he did. He puffed out his chest, put on a smile, and faced the world even when it was so eager to spit on him. Maybe he could speak to Carol, get a job as a cook or something. Yeah. He could do all that. He tilts his head back, gulps down the shot, shudders slightly as the fire rekindles itself in his stomach.</p>
<p>Tomorrow will be a good day, Gage Preston is certain of it.</p>
<p>He’s… <i>eh,</i> who cares, how many shots in when someone sits next to him at the bar. Preston turns his head to the mystery man and even in his tipsy haze, he recognizes him. The jock gasps and averts his eyes. How lucky could he be? Maybe this night could turn around. Preston adjusts the lapels of his jacket— he had dug out the old Fairview varsity from deep in his closet— and clears his throat.</p>
<p>The man next to him is ordering a drink, but he says to the bartender: “I’ll pay for this one.” He inwardly cringes at the sound of his voice— of how his words come out slower than how he thinks them.</p>
<p>The man tilts his head quizzically towards him as if noticing his seatmate for the first time. His black hair is slicked back, and gray eyes peer into his own blues behind horn-rimmed glasses. “Umm…” The man shifts in his seat and Preston worries he made him uncomfortable with his action. “I’m a-afraid I can’t ask you to do—”</p>
<p>“No, please!” Preston blurts out and the man reels back, as if afraid of him. Shit. <i>Shit.</i> The blond rubs the back of his neck, hoping the man won’t move to another seat. “Um, I’m just a big fan of your work. Jed Olsen, right?”</p>
<p>The man blinks owlishly at him, but a tiny smile forms on his face. “Y-Yeah. That’s right.” He extends his hand. “And y-you are?”</p>
<p>“Gage, Gage Preston.” Preston gives his hand a hearty shake. “But my friends call me Preston.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s a pleasure to m-meet you… Um, Preston.” Jed gives a firm nod, taking back his hand. He thanks the bartender as he takes his drink, giving it a tentative sip. “So you read my articles?”</p>
<p>“Read them?” Preston says, “Reading them would be an <i>understatement.</i> I think I’ve looked at them over a million times. Sorry if I’m gushing, I don’t mean to, but the way you write is absolutely stellar. It’s like, you really understand the crimes. Especially your Ghostface arti—” He stops himself, noticing the look on the man’s face. Nervously, he chuckles. “Sorry, you probably didn’t come here to talk about work, huh?”</p>
<p>Jed’s smile only widens, softening. “Hah, you’ve caught me. Um…” He glances away. “I… I only come here when a case is so crazy, I have to g-get away from it all.”</p>
<p>Preston doesn’t remember seeing the man here before, but if he’s being honest— his memories are all fuzzy, like he’s underwater and trying to open his eyes. Still, the crime reporter’s words intrigue him greatly. Excitement shoves through all his crappy feelings of earlier.  “Am I allowed to ask?”</p>
<p>“Only if you let m-me buy the n-next round,” Jed replies, goodheartedly.</p>
<p>So Preston does just that. The two clink their glasses together and down their shot. </p>
<p>“Truthfully, it’s a b-bit of a doozy,” Jed admits, in a voice so low that Preston has to lean in a little closer in order to hear above the clamor of the busy bar, “I <i>think</i> it’s a G-Ghostface crime.”</p>
<p>Preston’s mouth hangs a little open. “Why do you say that?” He tries to whisper, though he probably wasn’t. Jed frowns at him and he winces. <i>Okay.</i> So he needed to be quieter. This was <i>clearly</i> confidential information. He could do that. He asks his question again, making sure to keep his own voice low.</p>
<p>“The cops h-haven’t found the photo yet… but this man was last seen at a bar. He was a good kid, that’s what everyone t-tells me anyway.”</p>
<p>“That’s what they always say,” Preston can’t help but chime in and earns a soft giggle from the reporter.</p>
<p>“True. But he was something s-special, they said. Until he got injured. Then they s-say he gave up on himself. Isn’t… Isn’t that sad?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Preston nods, hanging on his every word. How awful that must be— it makes his own heart ache with a familiarity that he can not place.</p>
<p>“T-they found him in the forest outside town…” Jed shakes his head. He has to stop for a moment, recollect himself. “M-multiple stab wounds were in his chest… And his right eye—” The reporter swallows thickly. “He was missing it.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Preston breathes out, placing a hand over his own. The sympathy pain causes a harsh throbbing behind his eye.</p>
<p>Jed’s shoulders droop. “It’s just really sad to lose such a b-beloved member of the community…”</p>
<p>“What was his name?” Preston asks and for an odd second, he thought he saw a glint behind the man’s glasses. But that’s silly, that’s a trick of the light. The reporter looks downright miserable, pulls his oversized black jacket closer to him.</p>
<p>“I… I’m sorry. T-that’s confidential,” Jed looks embarrassed. “I wasn’t even supposed to tell you any of this. You understand, don’t you?”</p>
<p>Preston gives him a deadly serious look. His words were not lost on him, after all. “I’ll never tell a soul,” he assures and the reporter’s tiny smile reappears on his face.</p>
<p>The reporter orders them one more drink and they take it together. Then, he apologizes, but he has to finish up his work before tomorrow. “But,” he vows to Preston, “I promise it’ll be an a-amazing article.”</p>
<p>“They always are,” Preston tells him. He watches the reporter pay his tab and leave.</p>
<p>
  <i>Wow.</i>
</p>
<p>The former jock just sits there for a moment, still reeling from the chance encounter with the reporter. Jed Olsen got to know crimes that happened before they even broke news. Imagine? Imagine if he could be like him? His mind drifts for a moment and he’s not thinking about all the shit’s that happened to him or his glory days. He’s thinking about his future. He’s thinking about being a reporter, just like Olsen. </p>
<p>He’s not sure how much time passes before he hears a loud noise and he jumps. The bartender is glaring at him, her hand flat against the counter. He realizes that she slammed it to wake him up. He takes a moment to admire her rings, how they sparkle under the light. “Hey, buddy. Curfew’s two hours away.”</p>
<p>Preston glances around the bar— it’s nearly empty now. There’s a few stragglers like him, but he’s the only one who’s probably under forty. Embarrassed, he pays his tab and slides off his stool. “I won’t be here tomorrow, Maggie,” he declares to her, “I’m going to turn everything around.”</p>
<p>“My name’s Jill,” she replies, sourly.</p>
<p>Preston doesn’t hear her— he’s out the door with a renewed ambition. The former jock pats down his jacket, gives a little groan. Shit. Where <i>were</i> his keys? He continues this game for a bit, but comes up short. He glances behind him, thinks about asking the bartender, but he didn’t think she’d care much. Maybe he left them at home like last time. </p>
<p>He sludges through his memories, trying to remember how he came here. He thinks he took the bus, maybe. But it’s alright— he had some spare change, he could take the bus back. So Preston makes his way towards the stop, walking along the empty street. He used to hate this place. He used to dream about the day he’d escape this sleepy town. But on a night like tonight, when the stars twinkle and the streetlamps decide to work, it’s almost beautiful. </p>
<p>He’s so lost in his admiration that he almost misses it— “Wait, wait!” He calls out, darting into the street. The car screeches to a halt just before him. His heart should be pounding, but he knows the driver wasn’t going to hit him. The driver is staring at him, bewildered, and it makes Preston laugh.</p>
<p>Whew, that was a close one— the car nearly took off. He’s just lucky no one else was around to see how <i>stupid</i> that was. Preston comes around the side. He could spot this car in his sleep: it’s an absolute hunk of junk, silver in color and with a big dent near the bumper. The driver rolls down the window.</p>
<p><i>“Jesus,</i> that was fucking stupid. You realize that, right?”</p>
<p>Preston doesn’t know why that’s so funny, but it is. He chuckles and grins brightly at the driver. “Hey, Frank. Mind giving me a lift home? I uh… I lost my keys again.”</p>
<p>The teenager clicks his tongue, as if annoyed. But Preston knows he’s not really annoyed. He knows Frank’s type: he acts like a lone wolf who hated the world, but really, he was just a big softie. Frank was everything Preston had tried so hard to be back in high school: he had this air of rebellion, told authority to fuck off, marched to the beat of his own drum. And he did it effortlessly.</p>
<p>After a moment, Frank leans over and opens the door for him. Preston happily slides in, closes the door behind him. He takes another look at the younger man— maybe if he had been sober, he would have noticed how tightly he clenched the steering wheel, how bizarrely he was dressed, how his eyes make quick glances up at the rearview mirror. </p>
<p>But unfortunately, Preston doesn’t notice any of these things.</p>
<p>Frank watches as the older dropout buckles in, all bright smiles. He tells him something, the alcohol reeking his breath. It makes his nose crinkle and he glances back to the road. Frank presses play on the stereo, not wanting to make conversation. He wasn’t sure what he could tell the man right now. But that didn’t matter.</p>
<p>What did matter was that everything was going according to plan. Well, besides the jock trying to fling himself in front of a moving car— Frank had asked Ghostface if he was alright and the serial killer answered with an annoyed: <i>“Yeah.”</i></p>
<p>He continues to drive, glancing at Preston every so often as he did so. The man is his usual upbeat self, humming along to the song as he watches the buildings pass. Frank forces himself to keep his eyes on the road— he feels like he just swallowed a spoonful of molasses, dread slowly dripping down into his stomach.</p>
<p>
  <i>Drip, drip.</i>
</p>
<p>He shouldn’t be feeling like this. Why is he feeling like this? There should be that <i>rush</i> of power or some type of thrilling tremor that makes him giddy like he took some type of upper. But there is nothing more than the dread.</p>
<p>
  <i>Drip, drip.</i>
</p>
<p>In his head he’s back at the lodge, back with Julie. Thinking back to how she was so full of life and so beautiful and how she smiled at him with genuine fondness. He thinks of how Preston was a week and a half earlier— overlooking the cliff with him and marveling in its wonder.</p>
<p>Preston says something, but he does not hear it.</p>
<p>It’s stupid to be feeling like this. He should laugh at himself, but his mouth feels dry and his tongue is a size too big. He is still driving, the street lamps tower over the car, their pale yellow lights like eyes watching with judgment. </p>
<p>“Frank,” Preston tries again, his hands and face pressed against his window. “Frank?”</p>
<p>“What?” asks Frank.</p>
<p>“You’ve passed my house,” Preston informs him.</p>
<p>“Did I?” asks Frank faintly.</p>
<p>Preston moves from the window and Frank shouldn’t look at him. He shouldn’t. But he’s like Pandora, opening up the box he should not. Preston still has that stupid little smile on his face and even though his body screams confusion, he is still putting up that front for Frank. It makes the younger dropout sick.</p>
<p>“You can make a turn here,” Preston says, kindly, “And that’ll take you back.”</p>
<p>Frank continues to drive straight.</p>
<p>“You know,” Frank forces himself to get a grip, to remember what the fuck he was here for. His voice has a flat cheer to it: “The night is still young. We should <i>do</i> something.”</p>
<p>“Ah…” Preston’s smile falters, just a tiny bit. “Normally, I’d love to. But curfew is about to kick in, and I have p—”</p>
<p>“Screw curfew!” Frank blurts out and Preston actually recoils a bit from the scare, “Who gives a fuck? You really think we should abide by the rule that the pigs gave us? Live a little, Preston. Come on.”</p>
<p>“There’s always tomorrow, Frank,” Preston reminds him, gently, like he’s taming a wild animal. Frank’s eyes narrow. </p>
<p>Is that how Preston really saw him?</p>
<p>Shouldn’t that make him powerful? Doesn’t he like to be unapproachable? Doesn’t he <i>like</i> being the cause of someone’s fear? His brain is telling him: “Yes, this is what we wanted.” But then why does it feel like he’s been slapped in the face?</p>
<p>The younger dropout doesn’t bother to reply, there was no point in it. Preston seems hesitant to talk again, but forces himself to: “Frank… Is something wrong?”</p>
<p>Something was wrong. Something was <i>terribly</i> wrong, but how could he tell the older dropout what it was when he didn’t even know? The hands on the steering wheel— for a moment, he doesn’t recognize them: much too pale to be his. They are stained red, drying blood on them.</p>
<p>“I was kicked out of Fairview.”</p>
<p>Both Preston and himself are surprised that he spoke, but he continues, staring back out into the road: “Yeah. I shoved the fucking referee into the bleachers. He said I had double-dribbled. But I hadn’t. He just said that because he had it out for me. Everyone <i>always</i> has it out for me.”</p>
<p>“Frank…?”</p>
<p>With each word he spoke, Frank became more and more unconstrained: “The principal hated my ass, so he was thrilled when he saw it. Called the cops on me. The cop didn’t listen to my side of the story, just slapped handcuffs on me. When I looked back, the referee had the biggest fucking smile on his face. Why did I look back? I shouldn’t have. I should have saved face, right? What would you have done?”</p>
<p>“I…” Preston nibbles his lower lip. It’s like he’s processing what the younger dropout just told him. “I would have… looked back.”</p>
<p>Frank laughs, slapping his hand against the wheel. The force of it stings his palm. “Yeah, yeah. See, <i>that’s</i> the thing. Everyone would have looked back. But I’m <i>not</i> like everyone.”</p>
<p>“Frank?” Preston’s voice raises, just a little, from growing nerves. “Where are we going?”</p>
<p>“I don’t even know why I did, either. I didn’t give a shit what anyone thought about me, so what was I hoping to see? Did I really think people would be rushing to stand up for me? What the <i>fuck</i> was I thinking?”</p>
<p>“Where—”</p>
<p>“But,” Frank becomes strangely idyllic then, “What does it matter? In the end, nothing matters. We’re all just little specks on a tiny little rock floating in the middle of black emptiness.”</p>
<p>Preston stays quiet for a long moment. “I’m… I’m sorry.” Frank wonders what he’s apologizing for. “Frank, can we turn back now?”</p>
<p>“You know,” Frank scoffs in irritation, “That’s your problem.”</p>
<p>“Huh?” Preston was fidgeting now, his eyes darting back and forth.</p>
<p>“You’re always so <i>stuck</i> in the past. You always want to turn around, go back. But news flash—” His hands are flat against the wheel. Preston tries the door but finds it will not budge. “Sometimes, you can’t go back. Sometimes, that’s it.”</p>
<p>“Please let me out of the car,” Preston begs.</p>
<p>“It’s like you said, right? It’s the end of—”</p>
<p>“Frank!” Preston snags the younger dropout’s arm and yanks it off the wheel. Frank’s eyes widen at this action, like he’s finally snapped out of a trance. The older jock scrambles to kick his foot off the gas pedal. The car swivels. <i>“Stop the fucking car!”</i></p>
<p>It is then that Preston is grabbed by the back of his shirt collar, slammed back against the car seat. Ghostface is holding him tight and when Preston starts to panic, begins to try to fight back, the serial killer reaches around and puts the knife to his neck. </p>
<p>“Stop moving,” the killer whispers dangerously, “Or your guts will be all over the window.”</p>
<p>Preston freezes then, hands out flat. He’s trying to obey the serial killer’s order best as he can, but he’s trembling. His eyes slide over to Frank, who’s regained control and continues to drive steady. “F-Frank?”</p>
<p>“You’ve picked the wrong friend, I’m afraid,” Ghostface purrs, “Frankie here doesn’t give a shit about you. He never gave a shit about you. It was just all part of our little game. Isn’t that exciting?”</p>
<p>Tears prickle Preston’s eyes. “Am… Am I going to die?”</p>
<p>“Oh yes,” Ghostface replies sickeningly saccharine, “You see— you’re something special. You’re our farewell to Ormond.”</p>
<p>“I told you,” Frank tells the other dropout but does not look at him, his voice hardening, “I told you I was going to be leaving. I’m not like you. I’m going to leave.”</p>
<p><i>“Frank,”</i> Preston is frantically saying, “Frank, <i>please.</i> Please tell him to let me go. Please. I… I won’t say anything. I never saw anything. I won’t—” He quiets when Ghostface pushes him forwards, only to slam his head back against the car seat.</p>
<p>Frank doesn’t reply. </p>
<p>“We can let him go,” Ghostface sounds positively giddy, “If you want, Frankie. I don’t mind.”</p>
<p>Frank doesn’t reply. They drive past the gas station.</p>
<p>The town becomes smaller and smaller in the distance. Preston’s head is turned as much as it can, watching the scenery pass him with despair. Soon, they find themselves weaving through the forest that hid Ormond from the rest of the world. Eventually, the only lights are the car’s headlights. Preston is sobbing openly now, still babbling out pleads. </p>
<p>Frank thinks he’s an ugly crier.</p>
<p>No one went off-road when it came to the forest. Ormond was always a one-way in, one-way out type of place. Large pine trees loom over them. He parks the car. The headlights die. Preston’s chest is heaving up and down, he’s already stained his shirt with vomit. He’s whispering <i>“Oh god, oh god,”</i> like God had bothered to waste time with him.</p>
<p>The three stay like that for a moment. Frank is the first to speak: “Ghostface’s wrong, by the way.”</p>
<p>The serial killer turns his mask to him. Its ghoulish scream never changes expression, but he knew that his statement displeased him. Frank finds that sort of funny, smirks a bit. He looks to Preston: “I do give a shit about you.”</p>
<p>Preston’s eyes are as big as saucers and when Frank leans over him, he shrinks. Tries to make himself smaller than he is.</p>
<p>The car door opens.</p>
<p>The lights in the car come on.</p>
<p>Preston doesn’t move, neither does Ghostface. Frank pulls back. “I’m giving you a chance here, since we’re fellow Spartans and all. If you can outrun us… You can live. No take-backs.”</p>
<p>Preston’s eyes dart to the door. “I… I…”</p>
<p>“It shouldn’t be too hard, right?” Frank tilts his head, his tone casual. “After all, you were always the star athlete.”</p>
<p>After a moment, Ghostface moves the knife away from the jock’s throat. Frank glances over towards the mask, before returning his stare towards Preston. He sees himself reflected in the other’s pale blue eyes. His mouth was turned in a bored frown, his eyes hollow and dark. He nearly doesn’t recognize the person staring back at him.</p>
<p><i>“Five,”</i> Frank begins, in a soft whisper.</p>
<p>Preston doesn’t wait for the dropout to speak again, pushes himself out the door, and takes off into the night. Frank breathes, watching him go in awe. There was no way, feasibly, to make it back to Ormond. He supposes he could try to go out to the road, but what did it matter? No cars would be out this hour. There was a curfew, after all.</p>
<p>Frank pops open the dashboard, takes out his mask and knife.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Ghostface reaches forward, grasps his chin, forcing the other to meet the black holes of the mask. A dark snarl to his words: <i>“Don’t ever fucking say that again.”</i></p>
<p>“You were wrong,” Frank repeats, keeping his gaze steady. His heart pounds faster and faster. Is it from fear? Adrenaline? Which one was worse? He waits for the killer to stab him, to hurt him, to make him suffer for his boldness. He blinks in surprise when the other man chuckles instead.</p>
<p>“No, I wasn’t,” Ghostface replies easily after a heartbeat, releasing him. The serial killer opens his door and walks lazily off, to the side of the direction that Preston took. Frank stays there, just a moment longer, the killer’s words sinking in.</p>
<p>
  <i>Drip, drip.</i>
</p>
<p>He puts on the paper mask.</p>
<p>Preston has gone a far distance, that he knew, but that could not help him much in any regard. Though the terrors of the night had sobered him up some, the liquor in his system was not so keen on vanishing completely: his vision was sort of blurry and he kept thinking there were more trees than there actually were. It was disorienting; the more he ran the more his world spun and where was he? Where were <i>they?</i></p>
<p>All this time, he was so fascinated by the Ghostface crimes, but the thought of being one of his <i>victims—! No!</i> He couldn’t think like that. He was going to live. He was going to make it to tomorrow. Tomorrow was going to be a good day; everything would be good again. This was all just some bad dream. He’d wake up tomorrow fine, absolutely <i>fine.</i></p>
<p>He wipes his running nose with his sleeve, continuing to stumble in deeper. His mind was addled and thought after thought was crashing around, but the most prominent was: <i>‘What the fuck?’</i> A bad dream, more like a fever dream. A hallucination of the worst kind. Why was Frank working alongside Ghostface? The serial killer worked alone, didn’t he? That’s what the news said... And Frank… Frank wasn’t like that…</p>
<p>He was growing exhausted, his heavy breaths becoming puffy white mist. Maybe Frank was being forced to do this. Maybe he could save them both. Disbelief wavers through him, but the optimistic thought keeps him from losing his mind. He forcibly steels himself. Once this was all over, Jed Olsen would personally interview him— he’d be Ghostface’s first survivor. </p>
<p>Preston bends down and picks up a branch that had fallen off one of the trees. It was sturdy, strong. He grips it like a baseball bat. There was no more sense in running to places unknown. There was only one way out of this. He had to knock them out, take the keys, and go back home. A lot rougher than it sounded, sure, but he <i>was</i> a star athlete.</p>
<p>He strains his ear to listen as his sight was a lost cause. He hears nothing but the chirping of crickets and his own breathing. He holds his breath steady until it is no longer audible. A snapping of a twig alerts him and he whirls towards the direction of it. He grips the branch tighter.</p>
<p>Crickets.</p>
<p>Nothing but crickets. He does not unsteady his stance, though with the alcohol he sways just a bit. Had he just imagined the noise? Was his drunken stupor causing him more paranoia than necessary? Fear seizes his heart and anyone else would have been paralyzed by the force of it, but Preston stood. Preston stood.</p>
<p>He sees it then— a blur rushing towards him. He readies himself and takes a deep breath and watches as the blur comes closer and closer. He sees its face momentarily: a smiling mask, bloodstained from previous kills. Preston scowls and slams the branch into his would-be assailant’s stomach. His attacker stumbles back from the force of the blow, ceasing in his movements. A quick study showed that it was Frank: of course, it had to be. His build, his dark clothes— a flare of betrayal courses through Preston’s body.</p>
<p>“So you really are in on this,” Preston refuses to let his voice waver with the disappointment he felt. The masked man doesn’t answer, slowly rising to his feet. In his hand was a switchblade, one he would have seen the high school outcasts brandish from time to time. He tells him: “You’re better than this, Frank, you are.”</p>
<p>The masked man doesn’t reply, only gripping his blade tighter. Preston readies himself to attack once more when a gloved hand slithers behind him and he knows it is Ghostface: he turns and strikes the man in the stomach like he had done to Frank. Ghostface stumbles back, but only lets out a loud sigh of disapproval. Preston takes off then, still holding onto his precious weapon. His only saving grace.</p>
<p>Frank looks to Ghostface, holding his stomach. “Shit.” </p>
<p>Ghostface chuckles, rolling his shoulders as if the attack hadn’t even hurt him at all. Then, he stalks off into the darkness once more. The stalker was not like Frank: he was content to wait in the shadows for as long as necessary. Frank grits his teeth. That’s how he’d manage to stalk this whole shithole, how he’d managed to stalk <i>him.</i></p>
<p>The serial killer enjoyed the long con, but Frank— Frank wasn’t as patient. Seeing Preston take off reminds him of all those nature documentaries he watched in school: the zebra trying to escape the lions. Frank lingers. He was the predator in this situation, no matter how shitty Ghostface’s lies had made him feel these past few weeks. Frank had felt so powerless when it came to himself and Danny, but he had regained that power with this chase. With this hunt.</p>
<p>So Frank takes off after Preston. It was the only way he was going to feel that rush of power that he so desperately craved— even when his victim was someone he hadn’t... <i>particularly hated.</i></p>
<p>He finds Preston deeper still and the jock takes a step backward, holding out the branch. <i>“Stay back, Frank!”</i> he warns, <i>“I don’t want to have to hurt you!”</i></p>
<p>Frank forces a chuckle. “Do you think Caroline would still like me?”</p>
<p>Preston flinches at that and for a second, Frank almost feels bad. But he steps closer still, gripping his knife tighter. Preston had to pay for his attack and this time he wouldn’t be caught off-guard. His eyes glance to the side, trying to find an opening in which to lunge towards the other man. Behind Preston, he notices that Ghostface has begun to creep up. So Frank continues:</p>
<p>“But, I’m still a good person, right Preston?”</p>
<p>“Y-you are,” Preston calls to him, “Because you can just let me go. You don’t have to do this.”</p>
<p>“No,” Frank breathes, “No I don’t. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. But what if I <i>want</i> to do this? What if I want to see you with your guts open?”</p>
<p>Preston shakes his head, letting the branch loosen just a bit in his grasp. He steps closer to Frank, which actually alarms the younger dropout. He stills, watching the older jock carefully. “Not everyone has it out for you. I promise. The world isn’t evil and neither are you.” Preston extends a shaky hand. “We can stop Ghostface, together.”</p>
<p>“Together?” Frank asks, timidly, lowering his knife.</p>
<p>“Together,” Preston affirms with a nod.</p>
<p>It is then that Ghostface wrings his arm around the man’s neck and with one precise, quick movement— stabs his knife into the man’s right eye. Preston howls with pain, a cry that makes a cold shiver run up Frank’s spine. Preston is clawing at Ghostface’s arm, having dropped the branch, but the serial killer doesn’t seem at all fazed by the attempt to escape. Ghostface lets out a low laugh before he pulls his knife out.</p>
<p>Preston’s eye glistens under the moonlight.</p>
<p>Blood is pouring out of his eye socket. Preston holds onto it, his other eye darting around in terror, afraid of being taken too. The man is crying out in agony and he’s almost a headless chicken: he takes off towards the side, but Frank is faster. Frank snatches the man’s arm, throws him down onto the ground. Preston stares up at him, cowering, and Frank stares right back.</p>
<p>“I... I...” Preston scrambles, his back against one of the pine trees now. “I didn’t finish my bucket list.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Frank tells him.</p>
<p>“There’s still so much more I wanted to do!” Preston sobs, both hands over his eye now.</p>
<p>“I know,” Frank tells him.</p>
<p>“Please, aren’t we... Aren’t we <i>friends,</i> Frank?” Preston sputters out as Frank raises his knife. This causes Frank to pause and Preston cringes, trying to turtle himself. Frank turns to glance back at Ghostface, whose mask is pointed towards him. He glances back to Preston— <i>friends.</i></p>
<p>When he looks to the older jock, he no longer sees him. </p>
<p>He sees the Legion. He sees the Legion up at the lodge, laughing along with Frank’s terrible joke. He sees the Legion going with him to the grocery store. He sees them hiding the body. He sees them growing more and more distant from him. He sees his friends walking away from him, leaving him for good. A rage builds within him. He had friends and they had betrayed him. So he tightens his hold on the hilt and he stabs them: he stabs Joey, Susie, and Julie. Over and over and over again. That’s what they get. That’s what they <i>deserved</i> for being such fairweather friends.</p>
<p>But they weren’t the only ones who had angered him— he knows Ghostface is watching, all pleased under the mask. But how could he be so happy when he was just as much a liar as everyone else had been? When he lied about something so fucking simple as a newspaper? So Frank pulls out the knife and plunges it right back into Danny’s chest. Liar. Liar. <i>Liar!</i> It’s what he deserved too. That’s what they <i>all</i> deserved for crossing Frank. That’s what they <i>all</i> got for going against him. </p>
<p>When he is done with his handiwork, he tilts his head up to the moon. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and he glances back down. Preston is wheezing, doing his best to cling to life, one hand having slid down to the largest wound Frank had caused. He looked pathetic. Absolutely fucking pathetic. That’s because he was a sheep— just like everyone else. Frank had nearly felt sympathy for the bastard, but he was nothing. The scum beneath Frank’s shoe.</p>
<p>Frank tears off his mask, glowering down to meet those pale blue eyes. <i>“Look at me,”</i> he commands flatly, “Look at me while you die.”</p>
<p>Preston can not look away. Even as he lays there bleeding out, it is like he is a snake, charmed by a flute. He realizes it then. That he had severely misjudged Frank. Because the younger dropout did not act like he hated the world— he <i>did</i> hate the world. And Preston feels sorry for him. He wishes that he knew what had happened to the younger man to have him feel such venomous hatred. But not everyone was so cruel or evil. He knows he can grant his fellow Spartan this one thing. So he looks into Frank’s eyes.</p>
<p>And he dies.</p>
<p>Frank watches the light fade from the jock’s sole eye and he laughs: <i>oh,</i> he can’t help it! He laughs so loudly he’s afraid that somehow the people in Ormond will hear it. He is covered in the jock’s blood, from head to toe. He admires the fresh corpse, admires just how <i>fucking</i> messy it was. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful! His murder may look mad to some, but to Frank, it was the next Picasso. He stares at his hands, wet. So very wet. And he tightens one into a fist. The laugh dies in his throat, but he whirls around to look at Ghostface with a large grin on his face.</p>
<p>“Wow,” Ghostface whistles, his hands behind his back, as he steps closer to inspect Gage. “He looks like a chestburster got him.”</p>
<p>Frank watches the cloaked figure and a revelation comes to him: he feels good, sure, but he’s also infuriated. Even that word doesn’t seem strong enough for the fury that burns his blood with each slick and confident move the other serial killer makes. Like it was all just a game. Like it’d always just been a game. Ghostface had <i>used</i> Frank— he wanted Frank to get close to Preston. It’d all been part of the plan, but it still felt like the younger dropout was missing a part of the puzzle. His smile fades.</p>
<p>Just like the newspaper.</p>
<p>Ghostface turns to him, a slight tilt of his head. “Don’t mumble, baby boy. It’s impolite.”</p>
<p>“The newspaper,” Frank snaps, loud this time to maliciously comply, “Why the <i>fuck</i> did you lie about the newspaper?”</p>
<p>For a long moment, Ghostface doesn’t move. Frank is glaring at him still, hoping that somehow it’ll sear the man’s skin and make him feel pain. But instead, Ghostface heaves a loud, exasperated sigh. He takes the smallest step towards Frank, wiping the blood off his knife.</p>
<p>“Oh Partner,” his voice is soft, but filled with ominous darkness: “You always <i>have to ruin the fun, don’t you?”</i></p>
<p>Frank isn’t like the serial killer’s victims. He’s not about to beg and plead for his life. He stands there, his feet planted firmly on the ground. Frank would go down fighting if it came to it. When he doesn’t reply, Ghostface continues:</p>
<p>“You took off with the Sullivans, too. Didn’t even get to enjoy your kill. But there’s nowhere for you to run now, Frankie boy.”</p>
<p>The killer comes closer.</p>
<p>And closer.</p>
<p>Frank swallows thickly, holding his knife so tight he’s sure that the hilt will leave an indent on his skin. Ghostface is close enough that he’s only a foot or two away from the younger man. Frank curls his lips back, holds out the knife, and that makes the serial killer stop. Though he can not see beneath the ghoulish mask, he knows Danny is calculating the dropout’s every move.</p>
<p>“I just,” Frank starts, falters a bit, but strengthens his resolve: “I just want to know why you lied to me. I thought you said you trusted me.”</p>
<p>“And I <i>do,”</i> Ghostface replies, masking his words with skilled patience.</p>
<p>“Then?” Frank demands, “Why did you tell me you worked for the Roseville Gazette? Why couldn’t you have—”</p>
<p>“Hmm?” Ghostface tilts his head. “When did I say that?”</p>
<p>“Huh?” Frank asks, intelligently.</p>
<p>“When did I say I still worked for the Roseville Gazette?”</p>
<p>“You...” Frank can’t believe the audacity of the other killer. <i>“You told me!</i> When you first came into town. You told me you were from out of the country!”</p>
<p>“And I am,” Ghostface says with a half-shrug, “What does that have to do with anything?”</p>
<p>Frank stares at him, perplexed, but shakes himself out of it. “You told me you were sent to Ormond to cover Fink’s murder.”</p>
<p>“And I was.”</p>
<p>“B-but I said,” Frank pauses as he struggles to keep his voice steady, “But I <i>asked</i> you if there weren’t enough murders to cover down in Florida.”</p>
<p>“Hmm? Yeah. That <i>was</i> an odd question, I suppose.” The killer leans back on his heels, tapping the chin of his mask with the butt of his knife. “But did I tell you I worked at the Gazette or did you just put words in my mouth?”
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Your business card—”</i>
</p>
<p>“Oh, I hadn’t made a new one yet.”</p>
<p>Frank scowls, refusing to feel as stupid as the other man was making him out to be. The serial killer sounded so... so <i>bored</i> of this entire conversation. He ruffles his hair in frustration. “You <i>left</i> me the Roseville Gazettes!”</p>
<p>“Ah!” Ghostface perks up at that, “So you finally opened one up, did you?” He hums. “I had hoped you would have done that earlier, it was my clue to you— to show you who I really was. Did you <i>never</i> question why a Floridian newspaper was available in Ormond, of all places?”</p>
<p>Frank doesn’t answer and so Ghostface continues with a mocking laugh: “Wait. So you thought I was working for the <i>Roseville</i> the entire time? Did you really think George would have been so stupid to not have noticed if I was working for a paper that Ghostface was last sighted in?”</p>
<p><i>“No!”</i> Frank blurts out, still gripping onto either side of his head. He’s running through every single conversation he and Florida had in his head, trying to find evidence to prove his point. But he comes up empty each time. “That doesn’t make any fucking <i>sense!</i> Why wouldn’t you tell me you worked at the Calgary?”</p>
<p>“Why would I? It never came up.”</p>
<p>Frantically, Frank stammers: “I don’t... I don’t...”</p>
<p>Ghostface continues moving towards him and this time Frank does step back, going further and further until his back is pressed against a tree. The killer gives him a good long look through his mask, cupping the dropout’s chin. “I get it,” he whispers.</p>
<p>“Get... Get what?”</p>
<p>“You’re afraid. You’re afraid to let someone in. But why? Why can’t you ever let yourself be <i>happy,</i> Frank?” The killer strokes his cheek and Frank shivers from the cold of the bloodied glove. “You hesitated killing Gage, didn’t you? Not because you didn’t want to kill him, but because you wanted to savour it. You <i>wanted</i> to enjoy his demise.”</p>
<p>No, but... Frank had... Frank had <i>liked</i> Gage, hadn’t he? He had enjoyed his company? But even as he thinks that, his body buzzes with the knowledge that it took yet another human life. That he had lured the man into the lion’s den, only to devour him whole.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he answers softly.</p>
<p>“I know,” Ghostface murmurs, “You know I’m the only one who understands you. What you feel.”</p>
<p>He was the only one in this shithole that did. Frank finds himself leaning into his touch. “You’re a killer, baby. You’re like me. Death is the only thing that’ll satisfy us. But you’ve been fighting yourself every step of the way, haven’t you?” Ghostface is uncharacteristically gentle, “Now that you’re feeling good, you think you don’t deserve it.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Was that what he had been doing? Was it that he didn’t deserve this?</i>
</p>
<p>“I...”</p>
<p>“You think that the world would be better off if you were dead.”</p>
<p>Frank’s eyes widen, ever so slightly.</p>
<p>“But I think differently. I think the world would be such a less interesting place without you in it,” Ghostface puts his knife away and slips up his mask. Frank is met with dark grey eyes.</p>
<p>His heart is drumming in his chest, but he can’t say if it’s happiness he feels. Did he… Did he want to die? Was that it? He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He can’t. Instead, his mind is still scrambling for excuses, for reasons to be angry. There… There was one more secret Danny had hidden from him.</p>
<p>“So you <i>do</i> trust me?” Frank asks slowly.</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>“Then,” Frank quietly presses, “Then tell me why my page is torn out in your journal.”</p>
<p>Danny closes his eyes for a moment as if thinking with himself, before he reopens them. “So you <i>did</i> look in it.” His shoulders sag a bit, almost unnoticeable in the costume. “I was hoping you wouldn’t. Why did you?”</p>
<p>“Because…” Frank nibbles his lower lip, ruffling his hair. “Shit, Danny. I don’t know. I had… I thought you were bullshitting me about everything. If you wouldn’t even tell me where you really worked, who’s to say you actually… <i>give a fuck</i> about…” His voice dies in his throat. He hates how Danny is looking at him— all sympathetic. Like he was something to be pitied.</p>
<p>“Hey, it’s alright,” Danny assures him softly, the hand that's been on his cheek runs up to his hair,  “I’m not mad.”</p>
<p>“Why not?” Frank asks him, bitterness lacing his tone, “I’d be furious. Why aren’t you? Be angry!” He glares at the man. <i>“Be pissed!</i> I know you just want to stab me. Or, or—”</p>
<p>Danny shushes him. “It <i>was</i> shitty of you to go through my things, of course. I’ve killed people for less than that. But I understand. You’re right to be mistrustful, everyone’s hurt you so badly. Everyone’s always been against you. Of course you didn’t think you could trust me.” </p>
<p>“I’m…” Frank’s head throbs, as if he had just come down from a terrible high. He’s not even sure what to say. “I’m sor—”</p>
<p>“You have nothing to apologize for,” Danny interjects, but then continues:</p>
<p>“You think that you can appease <i>the masses</i> by hurting yourself. That’s why you’ve been acting up, why you did things you shouldn’t have— you <i>wanted</i> me to attack you. You <i>want</i> to feel hurt, you <i>want</i> to feel pain. But you’re so much better than them, Frank. You don’t have to hurt yourself for them.”</p>
<p><i>Is that true?</i> Danny says it with such certainty that Frank feels he may be right.</p>
<p>“Besides, I’d never hurt you, Frank.”</p>
<p>“Never?” Frank asks in a murmur.</p>
<p>“Never,” Danny assures, pressing his forehead against the dropout’s, “Baby boy, when have I ever laid a hand on you?”</p>
<p>Frank thinks back, but can’t think of a single instance. That’s right... Danny had never hurt him. Even when he was being a douchebag, he had never... Danny hadn’t even lied to him. That’d just been his insecurities eating up at him, afraid that he was getting more than he deserved. More than what the universe would willingly offer Frank Morrison. Had he really been that stupid? </p>
<p>
  <i>Had… Had he?</i>
</p>
<p>“I think,” Danny says, upon seeing Frank’s conflicted expression, “You have to decide, Frank. I can’t choose for you. Do you really want to come with me? Do you want to be free from the judgment of the world? Or do you want to stay here, chained to what everyone <i>thinks</i> you are?”</p>
<p>Frank opens his mouth to give his answer, but the killer shakes his head. “Don’t tell me right now. After we finish here, go back home. Sit on it. I’ll be waiting at the motel all night. If, by sunrise, you aren’t there— I’m going to leave. With or without you.”</p>
<p>Danny presses a tender kiss to his temple. Frank lingers there, warmth filling him from the touch. He doesn’t think he ever wants to move again, just wants to stay there with the killer’s lips on him and his touches caressing him. Keeping him safe. He feels something slip into his hand and Danny pulls away.</p>
<p>Both of them glance down, looking at the pristinely folded journal page. “Truthfully,” Danny murmurs, “I always kept it with me. I liked having it around.” He encloses Frank’s hand over it before he steps back.</p>
<p>Frank takes a second, watching as the killer puts back on his mask and becomes Ghostface once more. He holds the page like it’s a precious artifact, turning his attention to it once the killer has left to go prepare Gage’s corpse for disposal.</p>
<p>And then he opens it.</p>
<p>It began simply enough: <i>“Frank Morrison. Age: 19. Birthdate: July 8th, 1977. Leader of a group called The Legion.”</i> but the majority of the writing has been redacted with black ink. Frank frowns at this, eyes scanning each black line until he reaches the end. Though Danny’s penmanship was hard to read, he makes out the words:</p>
<p>
  <i>“It appears we are two of a kind.”</i>
</p>
<p>Underneath those words was what looked to be a photo of himself with his former friends. They’re all sitting around the schoolyard bleachers— and it was oddly taken from a close distance. Frank doesn’t have a clue when this photo was taken. Yet, that is not what strikes him most. While the other members of the Legion look like they’re laughing about something, all big grins, his… His own face has been scribbled out with a black pen. Frank stares at himself, at the <i>lack of himself.</i></p>
<p>And then he stands there, page in hand, gazing wordlessly at the darkness Ghostface had been swallowed by.
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">And with this, we're finished with Act Two. :-)<br/>I'm going to be taking a week break, returning <b>01.18.21.</b> If everything goes right, this will be our final hiatus. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">So, clearly, a lot of things happened in this chapter. Gage was meant to be a parallel to Frank: a better, well-adjusted version of our dropout. With our previous murders, we were actively rooting for them to die, but I'm hoping that by having Frank be conflicted about this crime, it would make you guys conflicted as well. Did Frank want to go through with it? Honestly, who can say? I don't think it'll ever come up in the story, so I'll just tell you: Danny purposely wanted Frank to get close to Gage, wanted him to struggle with this kill. It was a test, of sorts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">Speaking of Danny, the newspaper reveal has been in my head since the very first chapter, so I'm glad to finally share it with you! I know a lot of you in the comments were theorizing that Danny was going to attack Frank, but I just don't think he believed he needed to. If you think the latter half of this chapter is positive, good. If you want Danny to keep back with a ten-foot pole, good. I absolutely love the differing opinions on their relationship. You're free to interpret this how you want. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">We're down to our final five chapters, so I may have to be more vague in the comments. I hope you understand! ♡</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">Thank you so much to my beta readers Bwoo and Megidola- no matter how much you two try to deny it, this fic would <i>not</i> be the same without your help and I love you guys !!</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. What's Death, Anyway?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was the photo.</p><p>It was the photo— the photo that showed just what Danny really thought of Frank. His eyes fall back onto it: onto the scribbled out features that was Frank’s face. The ink of the pen went deep, as if it was meant to scar rather than to hide. He had delicately taken it off the page and tucked its original home in a drawer with a golden elephant and medal. But the photo? The photo he kept with him. Did Danny give it to him to soothe his mind? Or to set it further on fire?</p><p>He lowers it then, stares into the parking lot of the motel. He wasn’t even sure why he was here— it was two afternoons after Danny had given him the ultimatum. True to his word, when Frank didn’t show up, the serial killer seemed to have packed up shop and left. His hand clenches around the photo. It was funny. This whole time, he’d been certain that Danny would be the one to show him what was beneath his mask: but it seemed like not even the serial killer knew.</p><p>That’s why he marked up his face.</p><p>And Frank wasn’t sure why that had bothered him so much. Danny had told him that he wouldn’t put him in a box, but he had. He didn’t know who Frank was, so he just <i>decided</i> that Frank was nothing more than a copy of Danny— two of a kind, the ripped page had read. It didn’t make him pissed, it just… made him feel <i>cold</i> all over. Frank was so much more than just Danny’s partner, really he <i>was.</i> He was his own person. His own person who…</p><p>…</p><p>Yet here he was— sitting on the roof of his car, one leg dangling off it, as he watches into the motel parking lot. He supposes it’s too much to ask for Danny to slip up. He had vanished before, and it turned out he was hiding right under Frank’s nose the entire time. So he’s expecting the same. Expecting and receiving were two different things. He had called the Calgary Post’s offices again yesterday, asked for Jed, and was told the reporter had put in his resignation two weeks ago and left the other day. </p><p>
  <i>“But,” the receptionist had said with a cheery air, “You can find his last article in our newest edition of the Calgary Post!”</i>
</p><p>The news of Gage Preston’s death circulated through Ormond like an unquenchable wildfire, thanks in part to Jed’s chilling article. Frank had read it over twenty times, probably more. In it, he describes an Ormond kid who soared to great heights only to suffer tragedy after tragedy. It had ended with the line: <i>“But perhaps he may find the happiness he always deserved in death.”</i></p><p>The line dripped with mocking venom, but the citizens of Ormond had eaten it up. Frank felt like he couldn’t go anywhere without Gage’s name on someone’s lips and it infuriated him on the deceased’s behalf. Had they really given a shit about him, then why the <i>fuck</i> had they let him live like he had? In his final days, he’d been reduced to nothing but a drunk with a messy house.</p><p>Gage wouldn’t find happiness. Gage was dead. </p><p>He would rot in a grave six feet under and maybe people would cry for another week until they forgot he existed and move on with their lives like nothing ever happened. And Gage would still be dead. Frank rubs at his face. And who was the cause of that? He had killed the fucker for that high, but now he was going to play the moral police? Frank shouldn’t give a flying rat’s ass about any of this.</p><p>See? He wasn’t just Danny’s little protegé. If he was like the serial killer, he wouldn’t be feeling so goddamn shitty. He waits just a moment longer before he finally spots her— wild white hair, white pullover, and overalls. He scrambles off his car, doesn’t look twice as he sprints across the road.</p><p>When he approaches her, he can hear her humming a little song. Under her arm was a basket, perhaps that once held towels or something. His heart skips a beat when he realizes she was right in front of <i>that</i> room. The one that was always occupied. </p><p>“Uh, ‘cuse me.” Frank taps her shoulder.</p><p>The lady jumps, whirling around to give Frank a critical look beneath her purple glasses. “Young man, you’ve nearly given me a heart attack! You can’t just sneak up on a frail old lady!”</p><p>Frank mutters a sorry and she huffs, adjusting her glasses. “What can I do for you? You want to rent a room?”</p><p>“No, uh, I wanted to know… is Jed Olsen here?”</p><p>She squints at him. “If you’re here to pester him about his articles, I’m afraid you’re too late.” Her words cause his throat to constrict and it takes him a few seconds to ask why, but she tells him plain and simple: “He checked out the other day.”</p><p>“Oh.” Frank shifts slightly, her beady eyes fixated on him only serving to make him uncomfortable. So he really was gone…? That didn’t seem right. Disbelief makes his stomach flip— or was that just the nerves? He can’t seem to tell anymore. His head throbs. When he doesn’t say anything else, she shakes her head and continues:</p><p>“He was a nice man, very humble and polite.”</p><p>Frank scoffs and she frowns.</p><p>“He was grieving when he arrived. Said he was taking care of his ailing mother and she had passed away. I always felt so sorry for him.” Her hand flutters to her chest, giving her heart a slight tap. “But he never let that stop himself from doing his work. And this past month or so, why, I saw a little spring to his step he didn’t have before.” Frank remains quiet, letting her words stew around in his head. “But oh my, was Mr. King happy to hear he was gone.”</p><p>Frank remembers that she had confused Danny with him before. “Mr. King?”</p><p>“Well.” Her eyes slide over to the occupied door. “I’m really not meant to talk about my tenants in such a way, mind you, but he often complained that Mr. Olsen was much too noisy.” Amusement fills her tone, even as it drops to a mere whisper: “Seems he was a hit with the ladies.” She winks and Frank feels his ears burn hot.</p><p>Deciding to ignore her insinuation, he struggles to keep himself polite: “Um, can I ask you about Mr. King?”</p><p>“Oh, why not.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. “Do you want to hear about the rest of my tenants, while you’re at it?”</p><p>He forces a laugh. “It’s just, uh, I’ve been here a few times myself and his door always seems to be… occupied?”</p><p>“Yes, yes. Mr. King is an incredibly busy man— he’s working on a novel and doesn’t like to be disturbed.” She smiles and it's so large it nearly takes up her whole face. “Between him and Mr. Olsen, it was nice to rent out to people who weren’t just looking for a quick overnight stay.”</p><p>“His first name doesn’t happen to be Stephen, does it?” Frank asks, dryly.</p><p>“Hmm? No. It’s David.” She tilts her head back, gives a laugh. It's raspy, like she’s been smoking all her life. “Still, that’d be something, if we had someone so famous in our little town.”</p><p>Frank decides not to make the joke that they already had Ghostface, for the sake of both parties. He finds he was much more preoccupied with something else, anyway. He can’t look away from the locked door: it’s calling to him like a siren to a sailor lost at sea. <i>David King, huh?</i> He had to get in there, somehow. There was <i>something</i> behind that door. And if he had to put money on it, he wasn’t sure it was a novelist.</p><p>It would be easy enough to lock-pick the door and he could even return at night— but he couldn’t exactly barge in either. If David King was actually who was staying behind that door, then the man would probably freak out and call the cops. He decides right then and there to stake out the place: David King had to leave his room <i>eventually</i> and Frank would be right fucking there when he did.</p><p>So Frank thought.</p><p>It’s been a week of him staking out that stupid room whenever he wasn’t busy at work, and he hadn’t seen a single soul leave it. A scowl is on his face as he scruffs up his hair in frustration. How was that possible? Was it possible that David King really was that much of a hermit? Frank isn’t stupid, a lot of people say he’s stupid, but really he’s not. This had ‘Danny’ written all over it— a novelist going by Mr. King? Please. </p><p>… Or was that just wishful thinking?</p><p>Fuck. Frank opens his cigarette carton only to discover it empty. What was he even doing here? He had his choice and <i>he</i> made it. He had decided not to go with Danny, so why? Why was he still staking out the place like he’s some puppy chained to a pole, waiting for its master to come back home? Something flares through him, but he can’t pinpoint whether it's anger or regret. </p><p>If that <i>really was</i> somehow Danny’s room, what was the serial killer still doing here? Is he seriously sitting around hoping that the man stayed behind for a stupid fucking teenager he knew for a handful of months? And if that was the case, why couldn’t he have just called Frank? Did he want him to suffer like this? Mourn and miss him like last time?</p><p>Had he just fallen into Danny’s trap?</p><p>Frank’s phone, much to his dismay, no longer had service. But he takes it back out now just to listen once more to the serial killer’s final voicemail. It was soft, oozing with fondness, that had been left after Frank was a no-show: <i>“If that’s what you decided…”</i></p><p>That was it. Just five simple words. Even in this short audio, he could hear no trace of the anger that had formerly strangled his words in the last series of voicemails. There was no hint of teasing, no mocking tone. And maybe it was the lack of viciousness that had made Frank second guess himself so badly. Made him stake out a fucking random guy’s room just at the small chance it could be Danny.</p><p>He slaps the phone shut, so loudly that he was surprised none of the motel room lights came on. Then he opened his glove compartment, pushed past all the mixtapes made in better times, and pulled out a black permanent marker. If it was Danny, then he was more than likely aware of the beat-up silver car constantly across the road. He was never going to show himself unless Frank made the first move.</p><p>So he pulls that gut-wrenching photo out of his jacket pocket, folds it, and on the back of it writes in all thin, scratchy letters: <i>“NO WE AREN’T.”</i></p><p>Vague enough for the real David King to be confused by, but Danny to completely understand. They <i>weren’t</i> two of a kind. Because Frank… Frank was his own fucking person, damn it. He was so... fucking <i>sick</i> of being chained to someone. He wasn’t just the leader of the Legion, or a dropout arrested by a cop, or a serial killer’s partner. He fumbles some more with his glove compartment, pleased to still find the roll of tape Joey had left behind. </p><p>He digs into the masking tape, pulls a small strip, and tears it off with his teeth. Then, he steps out of his car, goes up to Mr. King’s room, and tapes the closed photo on the door. He studies his handiwork for a brief second before his narrowed eyes shift towards the drawn curtain. Who received it would more than likely remain a mystery for now. But Frank was finished. He was tired of giving up all this time to a ghost.</p><p>So he goes back to his car.</p><p>And drives home.</p><p>It’s a few days later, barely the second week of May, when the bell chimes to signify that Frank has a customer. The teenager glances up, bored and not expecting much, but there she stood— a sour look on her freckled face, brown hair shaved short, black lipstick, green eyes staring at him with a displeasure he was very much used to. He half expects her to walk away the moment their eyes meet, but she approaches him.</p><p>“You’re a hard person to track down,” she tells him, curtly.</p><p>Frank raises an eyebrow, but puts on a smirk. “You’ve been trying to find me? Why? No offense, I was under the impression you thought I should get run over by a car.”</p><p>“I do think that,” she replies, but extends her hand. In between her bony fingers was an envelope. Frank blinks, and when he doesn’t take it, she shakes her hand. He takes it, and as he’s opening it, she continues: “But what I think doesn’t really matter.”</p><p>He scans the card inside and finds he can no longer hold up a cocky smile. “What is this?” He flashes it towards her and she scoffs.</p><p>“What, you’ve never seen a <i>funeral invitation</i> before?”</p><p>Despite the air conditioner of the gas station having broke a month ago, he feels as if the air has become as cold as Ormond’s winter months. “You don’t want me there,” he tells her, holding it out so she can take it back. She doesn’t.</p><p>“Look,” she sighs, as if coming out here was already way more trouble than she had wanted, “You were close to Preston, weren’t you? I could tell the day you guys came to the diner.”</p><p>“I didn’t know the guy that well,” Frank insists, “Honestly, we had only met the day before. And we’d only hung out a few times after that.”</p><p>Her eyes fall to the counter. “I get it. You’ve seen the news.”</p><p>Frank freezes. <i>Yeah.</i> Yeah, he’d seen the news. He’d seen how the police had investigated Gage’s home in a hunt for clues over his murderer— how they discovered his shrine to Ghostface. The police had theorized that Gage had been the copycat killer all along, that he wasn’t murdered, that rather it was some sort of sick and demented self-mutilation. </p><p>“His final victim,” the police chief had said to the press, “Was himself.”</p><p>The whole thing had made Frank sick to his stomach.</p><p>He should be glad that he had been dismissed as the culprit, or something, shouldn’t he? But then he thinks about how the angry sheep of Ormond had begun to take out their rage on the dead fuck’s house, on how his legacy as Ormond’s Golden Boy was taken too soon and replaced by akinning him to the devil. There was something so evil about the whole thing— how quick society had just turned their back on the same person they were mourning a short while earlier.</p><p>He wonders if Danny was laughing this all up, wherever he was. </p><p>“No, I…” He recoils his arm. “I think all those rumors are bullshit.”</p><p>She glances back up at him, a small smile on her face. “Yeah, that’s ‘cus they are. Preston wouldn’t have hurt a fly. He was probably just trying too hard to play detective. Dumbass.” She murmurs the last part, but he can hear the pure adoration in it. Caroline had been the one to break it off with Gage, but he wonders if she had ever really stopped loving him.</p><p>
  <i>… Did Julie?</i>
</p><p>He’s been thinking about his ex-friends a lot, lately. Maybe it was out of some selfish loneliness or maybe because he genuinely missed them. He hopes it's the latter. Pushing that out of his mind, he replies: “Yeah. He was a good dude. He wanted the three of us to go watch a movie together. Thought we’d somehow bond by sitting in a dark room for two hours.”</p><p>Her lips twitch and he returns her amusement with a lopsided smile. There were no tricks or lies behind it. “I always stick by the underdogs,” Caroline explains, “So I guess that’s why I was so peeved when I saw you and that reporter. He seemed like a guy down on his luck, but… I think I got it the other way around.” </p><p>Frank takes no offense to her words. She extends her hand and he looks at it in surprise, before he gives it a quick and somewhat awkward shake.</p><p>She takes back her hand. “I hope you come to pay respects to Preston. I just… I want him to know that he still has friends in his corner.”</p><p>He’s back to that night. To him stabbing the man over and over in the name of friendship. And while a part of him still enjoys the memory, a stronger part of him sort of wants to puke. <i>Yeah.</i> He was some friend alright. Preston would roll in his coffin if Frank dared to show up. Caroline lingers a little longer, making small-talk that he barely listens to, before she leaves Frank back to his isolation.</p><p>He checks the invite once more– it was only a few days away. Frank had only attended one funeral in his life and he was too young to remember most of it. He had been ushered around by his foster at the time, he figured she probably couldn’t find a babysitter on such short notice. He didn’t know the deceased, but his foster had scooped him up in her arms and they looked inside the casket together. He remembers she was shaking a lot.</p><p>He can’t really remember who was in the casket: his mind blurs the person, like it grabbed their features and dragged them around until they were indiscernible. White flowers. That’s what he remembers the most. There were white flowers everywhere, such a contrast against the dark of everyone’s clothing.</p><p>He doesn’t think it’d matter anyway. He didn’t have that particular foster for much longer before he had been passed off again. And it wasn’t as if he was seriously considering going, was he? He crumbles the invite in his hand, shoves it deep within his jacket pocket. Maybe had this happened a few months ago, Frank would have been giddy to be able to watch people freak out personally over his handiwork. But now, <i>shit.</i> He doesn’t know.</p><p><i>“You should go,”</i> something later that night whispers in his head, when he was trying to force himself to sleep, <i>“Who knows if you’ll ever get the opportunity to experience something like this again?”</i></p><p>So perhaps that’s why Frank shows up in that black turtleneck and dark pants just a few days later. He tugs at the collar, feeling so stuffy and uncomfortable. He had cleaned the outfit well enough, but yet he still swore that people could smell the stench of Gage’s blood on him. His eyes shift around, scanning face after face, but he can’t recognize any of them.</p><p>Maybe it’s his nerves, but shit, he swears that they’re all staring at him with disgust in their eyes. The same disgust he’s seen so many times before and he scowls. They don’t even know him and they already think what everyone else already thinks, what a <i>big</i> surprise. That was the sheeple for you— they were too stupid to form their own opinions, so they just went along with the crowd. He’s five seconds from flipping them off when he’s met by pretty, wide blue eyes.</p><p>“You made it,” says Caroline. She’s wearing a simple black dress and he can see stains of her mascara where it had begun to run and she’d hastily wiped it off her cheeks. She doesn’t seem surprised to see him here.</p><p>“Yeah,” Frank says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I felt like I should. It’s like you said right?”</p><p>She considers this and gives a brisk nod. “Yeah, that’s true.” She glances around at the crowd. “I think they’re all here just to talk shit.”</p><p>Frank narrows his eyes, watching as several of the attendees turn away from him once they catch his gaze. She tugs at his sleeve. “Come on, follow me. You can pay your respects before the circus begins.”</p><p>He follows after her. “No family or anything?”</p><p>“He never had anyone,” Caroline admits, not looking back at him, “He had a family once, but he sent them away.”</p><p>They continue to walk down the corridor— the carpet reminds him of the one in Overlook Hotel, with closed door after closed door. He cranes his neck towards them, trying to listen  for any sounds of grief, but there’s only an eerie silence. So instead, he mulls over her words. That was weird, wasn’t it? Could people normally <i>send family away? </i></p><p>Frank furrows his brows. “Why?”</p><p>She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he was afraid.” </p><p>“...Afraid of what?”</p><p>She doesn’t answer him and he figures she’s gotten herself lost in thought. They finally make their way to the only open door, all the way at the end of the hall. He glances towards Caroline, but she doesn’t look at him. He peers inside the room: there’s a few rows of pews, a stage, a podium. High stained-glass windows. The coffin. It seemed all so stereotypical, like something you’d see in a movie.</p><p>Figuring Caroline doesn’t have the nerves to step in yet, he takes his hand back. She doesn’t fight this action. <i>‘There’s something fucked up about having your murderer be the first one to look at your body,’</i> Frank thinks, but Caroline refuses to budge. A wave of regret washes over him the second he steps inside the room. </p><p>Shit. He stares towards the coffin. Suddenly, it felt so far away. Like he was walking down a long, winding road. He swallows thickly. It was as if every step took him further and further away. He wants to turn back. He wants to run off, but his feet have become rebels. <i>“You want to see this,”</i> rasps the voice deep within his mind, <i>“You’ve earned this.”</i></p><p>He pushes the growing sense of dread away from himself, steps up to the coffin. It’s open, which is all kinds of fucked up considering the condition of the body. He remembers it vividly— it was like a rabid wolf had torn into him. Though, he reminds himself, there are no wolves in Ormond. He squeezes his eyes shut, let’s the darkness usher away the scarlet blood that threatened to engulf his vision.</p><p>After a moment, he reopens them. His eyes sweep the body, but it’s surprisingly… clean. He’s dressed in a simple black suit, probably a size or two too big— thrifted, if Frank had to guess. And in his scarred hands clutched a single white flower. His eyes drift upwards to look at his victim.</p><p>Yes, yes. And there he is!</p><p>Short blonde hair, eyebrow piercing… He steps back in shock. Wait a fucking second— in the coffin, that was… that was…. That was <i>him.</i> He whirls around, hoping to call out for Caroline for some explanation to the sick joke, but he sees the doors have been locked behind him. </p><p>Suddenly, he’s sweating. The turtleneck constricts tighter around his throat and he stumbles down a step, but it’s like his feet are glued. There’s nowhere for him to go. His eyes dart from left to right, taking in the empty pews. “What the fuck is going on?!” He snaps, to no one and nothing.</p><p>A hand snatches his arm with a ferocious grip, and he’s yanked towards the coffin. He tries to struggle out of the grip and stares into glazed over brown eyes. <i>His eyes.</i>  “I’ll tell you what the fuck is going on!” The Frank in the coffin snarls, <i>“You’re dead!”</i></p><p>“No I’m not!” Frank cries, hands clasped over the wrist of the other Frank and trying desperately to free himself. “You’re… <i>You’re</i> the one who’s dead!”</p><p>“But I’m you,” the other Frank says with a sneer, “So what does it matter who’s in this coffin?” He drags Frank closer. “In fact, I’d say there’s room for both of us!”</p><p>“I… I don’t,” Frank stammers, trying to get something to come out of his mouth, but it feels as if he’s taken a mouthful of worms. All crawling around in his mouth and he tries to spit them out but nothing comes from it. He’s pulled closer and Frank stares at the empty void of the coffin— there is no end to it. There is only darkness.</p><p>Frank nervously glances back, hoping there’d be some kind of saving grace— but there is no one and nothing. Other Frank laughs at his feeble attempts to break out. “You know, this is exactly the turnout everyone always <i>thought</i> you’d have!”</p><p>With that, he is pulled inside the coffin.</p><p>And to Frank’s horror, the lid slams shut.</p><p>He finds himself falling, extending his hand towards the sky, but he’s been swallowed by a suffocating darkness. He lands after what feels like hours and he forces himself to rise. He looks in all directions wildly, but there is no end in sight. He takes off running— where, he doesn’t know, but god he had to get the <i>fuck</i> out of here.</p><p>He calls for help, but no one comes. There is no one who would, of course. Frank, you’ve always been alone, haven’t you? You’ve pushed away every single person who’s ever gave a shit about you, silly. There is no saving you now. You are alone. Completely and utterly and miserably alone. And guess what? <i>I</i> think you deserve it. You deserve this. You’re a shitty friend, a liar, and a murderer. There is so much blood on your hands and who can you blame for it? </p><p>It was you, Frank. It was <i>always you.</i></p><p>You are not the victim here. You are the monster. You are the evil. You are the darkness. And you are alone. And the world is better for it.</p><p>“Shut up!” Frank shouts, hands clenching into tight fists. His fingernails dig in so deep they begin to bleed. “You don’t know what the <i>fuck</i> you’re talking about!”</p><p>Oh, but Frank. Why wouldn’t I know? We’re one in the same. Two of a kind, really. You’re so silly to not have seen it— you <i>really</i> should have left with me when you had the chance. Because now what are you going to do? You’re just going to rot here in your loneliness, and you’re going to die.</p><p>But that’s okay, right? That’s what you wanted? To die? </p><p>“That’s not it,” Frank snaps, holding one of his hands out flat. … This was a room. He begins to feel around, walking and letting his hand guide him along the wall. <i>“You’re</i> the one who said that!”</p><p>What’s death, anyway? I’ve always been curious.  Do you think this is what the afterlife is? Just… eternal darkness, forever and ever? That’s a little dull, I think. Personally, I’m always rooting for reincarnation. What would you come back as, Frank?</p><p>Frank doesn’t reply, continuing his trek through the shadows.</p><p>Guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s like you said: we’re just specks on a rock, floating in the dark. That’s so nihilist, you know. That’s probably why I couldn’t bring it in me to kill you: it’d be boring. I prefer it when people are clinging to some form of optimism, just makes it all the better when the light dies in their eyes.</p><p>You agree, don’t you?</p><p>Frank pauses as he feels a doorway, hand gliding up and down to make sure that it isn’t deceiving him. He continues to let his fingers trace the door, relief flooding through him as he feels the doorknob. He grips it tight, pulls it open, and cringes when he’s met with a blinding white light.</p><p>Are you leaving?</p><p>“I’m not like you,” Frank mutters, “I’d never stay here.”</p><p>You’re adorable when you lie. There’s nothing out there for you. But here— here— you have me. And I think that’s infinitely better than anything <i>they</i> could offer you. So don’t turn your back on me.</p><p>Frank steps towards the light. Something snatches his ankle, digs its claws into his skin, so deep it hits the bone. Frank cries out in pain, but forcibly tears himself away, and continues to walk, now dragging one foot.</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>You’re going to regret that, Frank Morrison.</i>
  </b>
</p><p>Cool air brushes against his nose and he blinks open his eyes. The sun is shining down, so bright he has to use his arm to shade his face. He finds he’s no longer wearing dark clothing, but a simple white t-shirt and blue jeans. His varsity jacket is tied around his waist.</p><p>His heart is still drumming like a madman in his chest, but he ignores it. That was some shitty daydream. He leans back against the bleachers, letting the sun warm him. Ormond’s summers don’t really get hot—  this felt like he was back living in Maple Creek. His friends are laughing over something, and he tunes himself into their conversation:</p><p>“And then,” Joey was saying, “he asked me if we were friends!”</p><p>“So what did you do?” Julie asks, a giddy curiosity in her words.</p><p>“Well, I stabbed him. Over and over and over again!”</p><p>Frank’s eyes shoot open and he sits up. The three of them stare at him, confused by his abrupt action. “What did you say?” Frank asks, staring at Joey with his mouth agape.</p><p>Joey makes a face. “What? I was talking about that dude, Gage?”</p><p><i>“You</i> stabbed him?” Frank repeats, slowly.</p><p>Susie fiddles with a strand of her pink hair. “Are you feeling okay, Frank?”</p><p>“Um,” Frank blinks, forcing himself to settle down once more, “Um, yeah.” He struggles to remember, but yeah. He was the one who told Joey to befriend Gage, after all. And the loyalist that his little toy was did exactly that. “Then what happened?”</p><p>“Well, he died,” Joey says, with a sharp laugh. It sends a shiver up Frank’s spine. That laugh sounded unnatural for the soft boy. </p><p>“Good riddance,” Julie snorts, resting her head on Frank’s knee. “And since we got rid of that stupid cop, no one’s smart enough to figure out what we did.”</p><p>“Well,” Susie giggles, “They might, if you talk so loudly.”</p><p>“No one else is here!” Julie protests, earning a laugh from the younger members of his Legion. </p><p>There was something wrong about this, but Frank’s thoughts are trudging along like it’s just gotten into quicksand. “I thought,” Frank finally says, and immediately his group turns to look at him, “I thought you guys didn’t like killing.”</p><p>Joey shrugs. “What does it matter? It’s what <i>you</i> wanted, right?”</p><p>Frank looks at him like he’s sprouted another head. “I didn’t… I didn’t want that for you guys.” He presses his hand flat against his temple, feeling another headache coming on. “Maybe I did? I don’t know. I’m not the boss of you.”</p><p>“You’re our leader,” Susie says, with a concerned frown, “Of course you are.”</p><p>“No,” Frank retorts, sharply, “No I’m not.” His gaze sweeps the three of them. “Don’t you guys have your own things you wanted to do?”</p><p>They all seem to ponder this.</p><p>“Sure,” says Joey with another shrug, “But it’s too late for all that now, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Of course it’s not—”</p><p>“Frank,” Julie cuts in, irritated now, “You’re the one who plotted this. You’re the one who said we had to do it. What’s up with you, now?”</p><p>“Why couldn’t we just be normal?” He blurts out and the three of them pause. Then burst into laughter.</p><p>“Normal?” Susie shrieks.</p><p>“Us? Normal?” Joey shakes his head. “Oh god, Frank, are you serious?”</p><p>“I… I never wanted to kill,” Frank leaps to his feet then, and once more this action silences them. “You guys <i>know</i> I didn’t want to. I just did it for you, Jules, and it felt so good—” His hands fly to his hair, grabbing strands and tugging at them harshly. “I just <i>couldn’t</i> stop, I couldn’t see anything else but blood, but you guys— you guys had moved on! I didn’t want to drag you down into this, you guys <i>know</i> I didn’t want that!”</p><p>Julie is unsympathetic towards her leader’s hysterics. “We all stabbed Fink. You told us to stab him.”</p><p>“I just wanted to keep you guys quiet!” Frank’s eyes shut once more, feeling his head pound, like he’s just been pushed under strong ocean waves. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t trust that you wouldn’t want to turn me in!”</p><p>“But we’re family,” Joey points out, “We wouldn’t have done that to you.”</p><p>“How was <i>I</i> supposed to know?!” Frank is all but screaming now, “How the fuck was I going to know that? How was I going to know that stabbing Fink was going to feel so <i>fucking good?</i> I didn’t want to! I just want to be <i>normal,</i> Jesus Christ! I just want to forget this shit ever happened. Why couldn’t I have been like you guys?! <i>Why?!”</i></p><p>“You’re so overdramatic,” Susie mutters.</p><p>When he opens his eyes, he’s right back where he started. The fluorescent lights that drew him in, the ones that flickered in amusement when he pulled out his knife. He shoves the knife deep into the fucking janitor. He pauses as the man hollers, the adrenaline shooting through his veins a better high than anything he’s ever experienced. He had been so afraid, but the fear had vanished. In its place was a desire to consume everything in its path. So he stabs him again.</p><p>And he feels frightened eyes watching him, but he’s like a man possessed. He can not stop what he has started. And so he kills Fink. He kills the Sullivans. He kills Gage. He kills them until he is exhausted and spent, throwing back the knife. He listens as it clatters onto the wooden floor. “There’s nothing else for me,” Frank breathes to the lights, “Is there?”</p><p>The lights flicker.</p><p>And Frank wakes up. He jolts up, feels sticky sweat clinging to his body. God, his limbs felt so heavy. He must have slept on them wrong. It takes effort for him to rub his eyes, rub away the last of the sleep. It is then he spies it: the mask in the corner of the room, watching him. Frank laughs, quiet, afraid he’ll wake up his stupid foster dad.</p><p>“So, you got my note.”</p><p>The mask slowly nods and approaches him. Frank lays back down as the figure climbs on top of him. “I thought you were a heavy sleeper,” Ghostface whispers through the mask. His voice is its usual playful one.</p><p>Frank reaches up, touches the cheek of the mask delicately. Ghostface doesn’t lean into it, nor does he move away from it. He should say something, probably, make up an excuse as to why he didn’t go with the killer. But he’s content to just <i>stay here</i> with him like this. Was that pathetic? Yeah. It was. He smiles to himself, feels the cold forehead of the mask press against his own.</p><p>“So,” Ghostface begins. The two find themselves staring into Frank’s bathroom mirror. “Are you still fighting yourself over all this?”</p><p>Frank sighs, his shoulders drooping with the action. “I just don’t like what I see.” In the mirror, in place of his face, was just a dark scribble.</p><p>Ghostface laughs, muffled through the mask, before he pulls it off. He expects to see Danny, but instead of the serial killer’s face is the same void. Frank tries to step back, afraid, but the man gently places a hand on his shoulder. “Husks.” His voice has become its flat monotone once more. “That’s all we are, Frankie. Darkness in an empty shell. And isn’t that beautiful?”</p><p>“No,” Frank whispers, “No it’s not.”</p><p>Where was his face? Where had it gone? He was a person, he was sure of it. He reaches up, touches his cheek, and he can feel it. So where is it? “There’s more to me,” Frank retorts and Danny gives another laugh.</p><p>“Oh baby boy, this is it. This is all we’ve ever been.”</p><p>He plants a kiss on the top of the teenager’s hair and this snaps Frank out of it. Once more, he’s back staring at the white of the mask. It has been pulled up and Danny has begun to pepper his skin in kisses. Frank doesn’t lean into the touches, nor does he move away.</p><p>“Are you going to kill me?” Frank asks, softly.</p><p>Danny stops then, moves his face back up so their eyes meet. Danny’s eyes are a sea of black ink, unreadable as ever. “Oh yes,” he purrs, running a gloved hand up his chest. “But you’re going to be something special. You’re going to be my farewell to Ormond.”</p><p>With that, Danny’s hand flies upward and Frank is able to take in one big breath before the pressure on his neck tightens. Frank lets out a choked cry, his lungs trying to take in air, but unable to. He can do nothing against Danny as the serial killer continues to strangle him. His vision begins to black in and out and he can’t look away from Danny’s eyes.</p><p>Oh— he sees something in them.</p><p>
  <i>Fury.</i>
</p><p>And Frank realizes that Danny was never going to let him live, not after he betrayed him. So he stops trying to struggle, lets the man have his way. And as his thoughts become fleeting, all he can think is: <i>“I'm going to fucking die and no one is going to come to my funeral.”</i></p><p>Frank startles awake and takes in his surroundings. He’s greeted by wooden walls, crappy tapestry, and a faded mural. He groans, trying to stretch, but he had fallen asleep on the smallest loveseat in existence. When he rises, he knocks over a beer can, its contents spilling on the wooden floor. His eyes glance downwards, scattered beer cans on the floor and loose pills on the rounded table. He doesn’t even remember coming up to the lodge.</p><p>He inspects himself, realizes he’s dressed like he was going to attend Gage’s funeral, and wonders just how fucking long he’s been out. He pinches himself, but he does not reawaken. It seemed like this was for real. Christ. What a fucking nightmare of a trip. He blames the lodge. There was something up with this fucking place.</p><p>Frank does not hesitate to leave.</p><p>He makes it home in record time and although Clive says nothing to him, he certainly <i>seems</i> surprised to see Frank. The teenager ignores him, goes straight towards the house phone. He realizes, as he’s pressing each button, that his hand is still fucking shaking. But he lets the line ring.</p><p>For a second, he nearly hangs up, but he stops himself. And he’s glad he does. Because he hears a simple: <i>“Hello?”</i></p><p>And he simply replies: “Joey?”</p><p>And there is quiet for a very long moment. <i>“Frank?”</i> Joey asks, <i>“That you?”</i></p><p>“Yeah,” Frank rubs his temple, leans against the doorframe. “Yeah, it’s me.”</p><p><i>“You sound…”</i> Joey seems to be thinking about his choice of words. <i>“Bad. Are you okay?”</i></p><p>“No,” Frank admits, “And I don’t think I’ve been okay for a while.” His eyes slide to the side, hoping that Clive wasn’t listening over his shoulder. “If your offer is still on the table… Can we talk?”</p><p>
  <i>“Can you come over right now?”</i>
</p><p>That was Joey. Always a loyal friend, no matter what. </p><p>And despite everything, that makes Frank feel good. He smiles into the phone, the faintest and smallest of smiles.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says after a heartbeat, “Yeah. I’ll be right there.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">welcome to our final act— act three! this bad boy is going to be quite a lot of fun. &gt;:33<br/>(also to be fair, it's still monday in pacific standard time.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">this chapter was completely experimental— i based it off the concept of a dream sequence in film, where you can't exactly tell what's real and what's not and everything is so disorienting. i wasn't quite sure if i could do it in a written format, so i hope i succeeded! i wanted to focus on frank and his trauma here. because at the end of the day, the boy is fucking traumatized— mostly in part to the murders (ESPECIALLY gage's) and the abrupt cutting off of his friends and ghostface.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">thank you so much to my beta readers megidola and bwoo for helping with edits! c:</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Let's Go Back to Normal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Frank stays on the phone even after he hears the click, even after the dial tone continues to ring in his ear. A part of himself doesn’t want to believe what he’s just heard— <i>“Why should Joey hear you out?”</i> A gravelly voice snarls deep within his mind, <i>“What have you done to deserve that?”</i></p><p>And Frank thinks back: <i>‘Oh fuck off.’</i></p><p>The olive branch had been extended. Though there was always the chance that whatever the two of them discussed would solve nothing, Frank was through sitting around and wallowing in self-pity. There was only one way he was going to fix any of the mess he created— and it was by taking the first step. Briefly, his mind supplies him with an image of an empty funeral parlor that still sends a shiver down his spine.</p><p>He puts the phone back and strides past Clive.</p><p>“I’m going out,” he declares, not really caring whether or not his foster father heard.</p><p>“Wait, kid.”</p><p>Frank groans. He honestly should have just kept walking, ignore the old fucker, but he stops anyway. He glances over his shoulder to look at the man in the easy-chair. He expects Clive to ask where the fuck he’s been the past few days (though it wasn’t as if Frank even knew the answer to that, as his memory is a haze in of itself). It wasn’t as if there was a curfew for Clive to pester him over anymore— that had been lifted with the reveal that Preston was the copycat Ghostface.</p><p>Clive eyes him up and down critically. “You can’t go out dressed like that. You look like you just came back from a fucking funeral.”</p><p>Frank barks out a bitter laugh that makes the man’s eyebrows lift in response, but he doesn’t push it. He wonders if Caroline would ever speak to him again, wonders if Preston was resting as peacefully as he could under the bus Danny threw him under. Still, for once, his foster dad was right. There was no way he could go out looking like this— Frank didn’t have many fancy clothes, had just worn what he usually did when he was out committing murders. It was fucked up, honestly, that his less-than-sober head even thought there was nothing wrong with wearing the clothes he murdered Preston in.</p><p>So it’s a few minutes later when he once again walks past Clive, this time in clothing with a less dark history. He wore his green hoodie, simple black shirt, pale blue jeans, and white sneakers. They had been a gift from Danny, after he noticed the teenager was walking around with shoes a size too small. He hadn’t had many opportunities to use them and it did feel a bit odd with the man being gone— but fuck it, there was no point in letting them rot in the shoebox.</p><p>Clive doesn’t tell him anything as he opens the front door, his gaze fixated on whatever it was that was playing on the television. Frank grips the handle and tells him: “See you, old man.”</p><p>His foster father gives a dismissive “Later, kid” in response.</p><p>Frank gets into his car and for the first time in a while, opens his glove compartment to pick a mixtape. Ever since Preston had died and Danny had left, he had driven in silence. He shifts through them quickly, pushing past that dumb blue mixtape he keeps meaning to get rid of. He selects one of the Legion’s favorites, with an array of hard rock and rap music. He begins his drive to Joey’s place. Frank had always found it a bit funny (not in that <i>ha, ha</i> way) that he was the one who lived furthest from the three of them— and now it seemed even more fitting, as Frank had distanced himself so much from them. On the road, there were more cars than usual and it’s still such a jarring sight for him. He had gotten used to the empty streets, even grown fond of them.</p><p>But there was no more Ghostface.</p><p>He turns up the speakers so he doesn’t think too much about it.</p><p>Frank pulls up to Joey’s driveway, unsurprised to not see his parents’ car there. They were some type of salespeople, though Frank never cared to remember exactly what of, and they were often out of town. This left Joey to be the ‘big man’ of the house— and though Julie had tried to convince him he had the opportunities to throw dozens of parties, he had been content to just keep their gatherings to the four of them.</p><p>He gets out and makes his way to the front door, a rare occurrence for Frank Morrison. If Joey’s parents were home, they would have been appalled to see him here. <i>“A terrible, terrible influence,”</i> they had called him behind his back. In that sense, he actually liked the Kostenkos more, since they showed their true feelings about him to his face, rather than putting on polite smiles like the Lewises did.</p><p>Frank doesn’t have to ring the doorbell before Joey opens the door. The younger teenager smiles, soft and kind, as he greets him. Yet Frank notices how he strains to hold it up, how his fingers tap against the door from his nerves. Being around Danny had taught him that— how to look at the little things, how to read people better.</p><p>Joey steps aside to let Frank in, allows the older teenager to survey his surroundings. It looked as cozy as ever: pale blue walls and tasteful decorations. “I’m glad you came,” Joey tells him and this makes Frank look back at him. He spoke so earnestly, part of him just wanted to punch him and shake his shoulders and ask: “why?!”</p><p>Instead, he lets himself relax. “Thanks. Where’s Jasmine?”</p><p>Joey’s younger sister. She was an elementary schooler and was much brasher than her older brother. Frank certainly didn’t mind her, but he didn’t want her anywhere near the conversation they were about to have. Joey gives him an assured nod. “She’s out like a light.” With that, he steps past Frank and begins his ascension up the stairs.</p><p>Though the other boy is bounding up, Frank makes sure to take his time. Along the wall of the stairway was a series of family portraits the Lewises have taken. Back when he first saw them, he had openly mocked them. Now, it gives him a dull ache in his chest. Especially one in particular— in this one, Joey is wearing his usual street clothes while his family wears their Sunday best. His eyes are rolled and he’d even managed to slip a subtle middle finger that his parents hadn’t caught yet.</p><p>Joey had shown it to Frank proudly. It had been taken only a few months after Frank had dug his claws into the Legion, and had them under his complete and utter control. He remembers slapping him on the back, telling him he was proud of him for “fucking the system”. But in that photo, that wasn’t Joey. That was just what Frank had tried to mold him to become.</p><p>He thinks back to Danny’s words on the rooftop then— how his friends had only become infatuated with an exaggerated version of his character, how they didn’t really give a fuck about him. In his rage and hurt, Frank had accepted those words as absolute fact. But now, Frank wasn’t sure that was right. He had only ever shown that version of himself to his friends and that was the only one they knew. They didn’t want him to be like that, just the opposite.</p><p>He had been the one who had to shove them into a box. And had it not been for Fink, maybe they would have become the ‘embodiment of anti-culture’. He thinks back to his dreams, sitting on the bleachers with them, sitting around like hungry wolves— nothing more than little playthings for Frank to use at his leisure. How disgusting that it’d been something he had once craved.</p><p>He has a lot to apologize for.</p><p>Joey strolls down to his room at the very far end of the hall, opposite to his sister’s. He expects to just go in, but instead the junior peeks his head in and says: “Okay. He’s here.”</p><p>This snaps Frank out of his thoughts and he freezes as Joey swings open the door. There, waiting for them, are Julie and Susie. His skin turns cold, but he forces himself to walk in as Joey does. Part of him wants to scurry downstairs, run out the front door, and drive off. But the junior closes the door quietly behind him. There is no escape.</p><p>Julie wasn’t looking at him, her arms crossed as she leaned against the doorframe of Joey’s closet. Susie was sitting in the navy bean bag chair in the corner of the room, and although she had bravely met Frank’s eyes as he entered, she’d quickly averted her gaze. She now seemed focused on the scuff marks on her boots.</p><p>Frank desperately looks at Joey for an explanation, and the younger boy helpfully supplies: “After you called me… um, I called the girls. I told them you reached out and I wanted to know if they wanted to… come over too.”</p><p>
  <i>And they came?</i>
</p><p>Frank’s half-expecting for Julie to get in his face and begin yelling at him, but she doesn’t. His heart swells with a bit of hope. <i>Shit,</i> maybe they came because they wanted to make up just as badly as Frank did? He waits for them to say anything, but they don’t.</p><p>Joey clears his throat. “Listen, guys. I know we said a bunch of things back at the mall. But I think having a chance to cool off was a good thing.” He pauses, perhaps waiting for someone to interject. Julie only scoffs, so he continues: “Maybe we can talk without… Um, all the… you know…”</p><p>He trails off, his fingers fidgeting with themselves, and Frank knows that he’s trying so hard to hold up the façade. Joey was <i>scared.</i> He was trying so hard to play mediator, but he hadn’t really known much about why they had all fought in the first place. If Frank had to wager a guess, he figures that Joey is afraid that this night will turn just as hostile as the mall trip. But Frank didn’t come here from a place of anger— he gently places his hand on Joey’s shoulder to assure him of this fact. The junior shoots him a grateful look.</p><p>Frank hadn’t been expecting an audience, <i>hell,</i> he’d barely expected Joey to even pick up his phone. But though the air is tense and awkward, Frank is glad for it. He’s glad to see all three of them here in this room. That being said, Frank has never been so nervous before in his life— it honestly feels worse than the time he was sentenced to juvenile hall, standing before a judge who could only look at him in disgust. </p><p>If this had been only months before— No. Only a few weeks before— his blood would be boiling. He would think: <i>What kind of asshole do they think I am? To apologize?</i></p><p>But he stands in front of them now. And he knows that just a simple: “I’m sorry” or an “I know I’ve been a fuck up” wouldn’t be enough for this. He’s hurt them too badly, and Christ, he can only hope that he’s able to heal some of those wounds he inflicted. He thinks briefly of Preston— if the older Spartan had been here in his shoes, he wouldn’t have hesitated to begin trying to mend the broken friendships. But Preston wasn’t here. It was just Frank.</p><p>“I know,” Frank finally says, as he shifts his weight from one foot to another, “I have a lot of explaining to do. I… I’ve been distant. And I’ve been pushing you all away. That shit wasn’t right.” His gaze sweeps the three of them. “I shouldn’t have lashed out. I know you guys were just trying to help me, even though I’ve been nothing but an asshole.”</p><p>Still not looking at him, Julie says: “You were.” Frank nearly winces at the harshness of her words. Her eyes, as beautiful as emeralds, finally meet his. “But... I shouldn’t have thrown my drink at you, either. That was fucked up and I’m sorry.”</p><p>Frank nods at her before he continues: “It’s alright. I’m sorry, too. I wasn’t trying to hurt your feelings, Jules. I should have explained myself better.”</p><p>“But...” Susie quietly says, tilting her head slightly up so she can look at Frank. “I shouldn’t have tried to pressure you into explaining yourself. I’m sorry I tried to ambush you.”</p><p>“And I’m sorry,” Frank replies, “I didn’t tell you guys what the problem was. I just…” He takes a seat on Joey’s bed. With a nearly inaudible sigh of relief, Joey sits right next to him. “Shit.” His eyes fall to the scars on his hands. “I—”</p><p>“Frank,” Susie tells him, with delicate firmness, “You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say.”</p><p>“I know. Thanks, Susie.”</p><p>He glances around, to the several movie posters tacked onto Joey’s gray walls. Normally, his room was a feast for the eyes— posters and artwork and even a stolen sign that read: <i>Shoplifters will be prosecuted.</i> Now, he feels it’s too overwhelming to even be here. He didn’t have to say anything. That was true. But they had come here and he at least owed them an explanation for everything that had been going on. He could not tell them about the murder spree he had gone on with Ghostface, obviously, but…</p><p>“The truth is,” Frank says, slowly, choosing each word with great care, “I was secretly dating someone.” This catches Julie and Joey’s interest, and they watch him intensely. “And… that someone was Jed Olsen.”</p><p>Silence immediately follows his words. He tenses, unable to help himself. Tears have sprung in Susie’s eyes, though she’s trying hard to hold them back, and he knows she’s afraid <i>for</i> him. The other two teenagers seem to be processing this. He expects Joey to bolt off the bed or for Julie’s lips to curl in disgust, but none of that happens.</p><p>Julie speaks first after what feels like an eternity, tone inquisitive: “The reporter that interviewed us?”</p><p>Frank feels a rush of blood in his cheeks. “Yeah.”</p><p>The blonde mulls this over.</p><p>“Oh,” Joey says with sudden revelation, “That makes so much more <i>sense</i> now.”</p><p>Frank gives him a puzzled stare. “What does?”</p><p>“You remember when those cops came to question us about McNamara? You said you were with Jed, and that you had some bullshit interview with him.” Joey tilts his head. “You were the one who asked us to lie low, so I didn’t get why you had drawn attention to yourself. But I get it. It was just a cover, huh?” He pats Frank’s back comfortingly.</p><p>Frank <i>thinks</i> he remembers that. “Uh... yeah.”</p><p>“I just,” Julie says, finally, and the three teenagers turn their attention to her. She gives Frank a strange look. <i>“Jed Olsen?</i> What the hell do you two have in common?”</p><p><i>“That’s</i> your issue?” Frank can’t help but ask, though he can breathe just a little easier now that he wasn’t going to get immediately booted for his confession. Julie shrugs.</p><p>“I just didn’t get the impression you were into s-stuttering nerds, that’s all.”</p><p>He flips her off, but the two of them smile at one another. Joey takes his own hand off Frank and asks: “So, are you… like… gay?”</p><p>“Uh.” Frank shifts with some discomfort, because the truth is he didn’t put too much thought into it and wasn’t sure he wanted to at this very moment in time. “I’m into girls. Mostly. He was my exception, I guess. I don’t really want to put a label on it?”</p><p>Joey nods his head in sage understanding.</p><p>Susie’s hand, which had been on her chest, falls back into her lap. “When I saw you and Jed… I was shocked, but I was on your side a million percent. I just…” She frowns. “A few days later, Julie was telling Joey and me about how you had invited her to the dance and kissed her…”</p><p>“You were just trying to protect Julie,” Frank affirms, with a warmth in his voice only reserved for her, “I get it.”</p><p>“I didn’t want you to string her along, even if it was to keep your secret hidden.”</p><p>“Honestly,” Frank says, “I wasn’t dating Jed when Julie and I went to the lodge.” His eyes shift to the side, thinking back to how Ghostface had kissed him after the death of the Sullivans. That felt like it had happened years ago, not just a handful of months ago. “He… He had <i>confessed</i> to me, but I panicked and left. That’s when I called Julie.”</p><p>Julie blinks. “Why?”</p><p>“I don’t know… I just wanted to get away from it all. I wasn’t trying to lead you on, I was just…”</p><p>The blonde cuts in: “Hey. I get it. I can’t imagine how alone you must have felt. I just wish you would have trusted us enough to tell us sooner, ya know?” She uncrosses her arms, finally letting her guard down. Joey and Susie echo their own agreements.</p><p>“How long has it been going on?” Susie asks.</p><p>“It doesn’t really matter,” Frank replies, with a shrug of a shoulder, “We broke up.”</p><p>“Oh, shit.” Joey frowns. “What happened?”</p><p>Frank finds himself in the woods, covered in Preston’s blood, pressed against a tree and listening to Danny’s ultimatum. Feels his lips against his skin. He blinks away the vivid imagery— his brain scrambling to find a way to water down the events that occurred to make them easy for the others to understand.</p><p>“He got assigned a new job, so he left Ormond. He…” His throat constricts on its own accord, and he fights himself momentarily to get it to reopen, “He wanted me to come along for the ride, but I couldn’t do it.”</p><p>Julie straightens up, surprised. “But you’ve always wanted to leave Ormond.”</p><p>“Yeah. I just didn’t want to leave you guys without telling you. Besides…” He gives them a cocky smirk, though it wavers ever-so-slightly. “I made plans with you morons, didn’t I? We’re all leaving this shithole together.”</p><p>It is then that Susie can no longer contain herself, rising from the bean bag chair and colliding into Frank. She wraps her arms tightly around him, burying her head into his neck. His eyes widen at this, but it isn’t long before both Joey and Julie have joined in, their warmth making him feel so light-headed and happy for the first time in a long while.</p><p>“Stop crying, Braceface,” Frank assures Susie, “It’s okay.”</p><p>“Take your own advice,” she replies teasingly, as they all pull away. Frank blinks, his fingers brushing against his cheekbone.</p><p>It was wet.</p><p>He dries his eyes with a quick rub of his wrist. Jesus. When was the last time he had cried? The last time he can remember was back in elementary school, when his foster had told him to shut up and man up. He looks at the three other teenagers and he doesn’t feel like he <i>has</i> to hold his tears in, like it’s okay to be vulnerable. Just for a moment.</p><p>“I hope we can start over,” Frank says to them, after they all take a while to recollect themselves, “I hope we can be friends again.”</p><p>“Stupid,” Julie says, “We were always friends.”</p><p>“Does that mean the Legion’s back?” Susie asks, twirling a long strand of her teal hair.</p><p>“I…” Frank begins, hesitates. His friends are waiting for him to give his verdict. He’s slipped right back into the role of their leader. This makes his stomach flip-flop. “I don’t want you guys to just be followers. I want to be friends. I want us all to be equal.”</p><p>Julie barks a laugh. “Uh, <i>your followers?”</i> She grins at him, leans over, and flicks his forehead. “Yeah, you wish.”</p><p><i>No.</i> Frank thinks back to the obedient little puppets they used to be. To the broken toys they had become. No, he doesn’t.</p><p>“The Legion isn’t just some group to us,” Joey reassures Frank, as he gets off the bed and towards his desk. Frank’s eyes follow him, but it isn’t long before Joey comes back with something in between his hands. “Remember?” The teenager offers him a warm smile. “We’re family.”</p><p>And in his hands is a taped up photo of them at the lodge.</p><p>It was almost perfect— no, to Frank, it was perfect. Joey had managed to gather up most of the pieces, bringing them closer together to make them fit. Nothing of the composition was lost and Frank supposes that was just his artistic talents shining through. The photo was taped twice, making it stiff but ultimately hard to rip again. It shone under Joey’s ceiling light.</p><p>He takes it once more from the teenager’s hands, with a silent vow that he was not going to let something happen to it a second time. And it’s mystifying to Frank, how such a malicious action could be met with healing. How even what he thought couldn’t be fixed could be mended. He looks to his Legion— <i>his</i> not because they were under his control, <i>his</i> because they wanted to be— and serenity washes over him.</p><p>His mind has doused the flames that had threatened to consume him, the red has left his vision, and in place of a dark void was simply a teenager.</p><p>It was a change he could get used to.</p><p>The four of them spend some more time together. Frank apologizes for everything he can think of and so do his friends. They’re able to move on, catching up with the going-ons of their lives, before they decide to depart. Joey waves them goodbye, locks the door behind him. Frank, Julie, and Susie go down the porch steps. They’re about to go their separate ways when Julie turns to Susie, hands her the keys to her car.</p><p>“Can you wait for me?” Julie asks, “I... just want to chat with Frank alone, if that’s okay.”</p><p>Big blue eyes glance from Julie, to Frank, with curiosity. Still, Susie nods her head and takes the keys. She gives her own farewell to Frank, giving him one last hug, before she strolls off further up the street. The two of them watch her go, make sure she gets into the car, before Julie tugs Frank’s wrist.</p><p>The two go around the corner of Joey’s house, out of earshot of the junior.</p><p>“What’s up?”</p><p>“Frank,” Julie says, her voice so low and serious that it makes him blink, “Are you keeping any other secrets from us?”</p><p>He frowns at her. “No,” he lies, “Why?”</p><p>She studies him carefully. “I’m going to ask you something. And I want you to tell me the truth. You <i>owe</i> me that, at least.”</p><p>The atmosphere has shifted considerably from the coziness inside Joey’s house. He watches her— her green eyes glint in a manner that almost reminds him of Danny’s. She holds onto his shoulders, as if afraid he’s going to take off the second she speaks.</p><p>“Okay,” he answers.</p><p>“You liked killing Fink.”</p><p>Her words immediately take the air out of his lungs, making him glad her slender fingers are gripping onto him because otherwise, he would have stumbled backwards from the shock. She says it— <i>doesn’t ask it—</i> with complete and total certainty. The last time she had said something similar, he had completely dismissed her. But he has a feeling that wouldn’t be possible this time.</p><p>“Yeah,” he admits.</p><p>It’s like a stand-off from a Western. The two do not say anything for several heartbeats, as if waiting for the other to take out their gun and pull the trigger. Julie nods, so subtly he doesn’t realize she did so at first.</p><p>“I bet after we killed him, that wasn’t enough for you. You wanted to kill again.”</p><p>“Jules—” He interrupts, voice sharp, but she continues:</p><p>“I know. Because I did too.”</p><p>Frank’s eyes widen, his jaw goes slack, disbelief courses throughout his body because he can’t believe what the <i>fuck</i> he just heard.</p><p>“When I put my knife into him, I never felt more powerful in my life. Sometimes, I still feel it, an unquenchable thirst. An urge to take another life.” Her eyelids droop. “I know you feel the same way I do, I see it in your eyes.”</p><p>Shakily, Frank lets out a little laugh that gets intertwined with the wind of the summer night. That was Julie, always so fucking smart. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”</p><p>She leans into him, causing him to lean a little back. “That note you got from GF. I know that was from Ghostface.” Not waiting for him to give confirmation, she asks: “Did you write that note? Was that some sort of test, to see how we’d handle it?”</p><p>“What are you asking?” Frank’s voice is barely above a whisper.</p><p>She pulls back, intensity etched into her features. “I’m asking you if you’re Ghostface, Frank.”</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“Swear to me,” Julie insists, “Swear to me right now you aren’t him. <i>Tell me</i> you haven’t killed anybody else.”</p><p>“I’m not Ghostface.” It isn’t a lie, but somehow it still feels wrong on his tongue. He wonders if she can hear how loudly his heart is drumming in his chest.</p><p>One hand runs down his arm, gently takes hold of his wrist, and pulls his hand forward. He lets her guide him, watches as she holds his palm out flat. “Do you swear on your life?”</p><p>“I swear on my life that I’m not Ghostface.”</p><p>With that, she moves her other hand off him, reaches inside her jacket pocket. She produces her knife— his own is its twin, and the two of them had mixed up their weapons so often she added a white band around the handle of hers.</p><p>She presses the tip of her knife into the base of his right thumb. He doesn’t flinch at the action and the two teenagers are still regarding one another. She cuts his skin to form a small ‘x’, deep enough so that it’ll scar. His calloused skin resists as best it can, but eventually relents and blood begins to trickle out of it.</p><p>“Alright,” she says, satisfied, putting away her knife, “Then I trust you.” </p><p>Although she doesn’t say it, the message was loud and clear: <i>Don’t make me regret that.</i></p><p>She reaches up and presses a soft kiss against his cheek. And he curls his bleeding hand into a tight fist. It stings, but doesn’t hurt as much as her gentler action does. Julie moves away then, the suspicion has gone from her expression, and part of him wants to tell her what he’s really done, but he stays silent.</p><p>Even as they depart, no more words are exchanged between the two of them. He watches her go. This whole time, he had thought he was alone amongst the Legion in his lust for blood. He had thought Danny was the only one who could possibly understand him, but here Julie was, right next to him. And she had moved on. She had gone right back to her daily life as if nothing had ever happened. If she could… <i>couldn’t he?</i></p><p>It’s hard.</p><p>It’s hard to go from satisfying your impulses to going back right back where he started. He only begins to feel that gnawing on his bones as the two-week mark approaches. Frank has gone back to his routine: picking up more shifts at the gas station to keep himself preoccupied while his Legion was at school, meeting up with them when the final bell rings, spending as much time with them as he could. Shit, he even helped Susie put up some of her dance posters around town.</p><p>But it has been nearly two weeks and it feels like his whole body is suffering for it. He’s used to these aches and pains, used to the way his mind roars at him to <i>justfindavictimgodPLEASE.</i></p><p>It is, in a way, sort of like quitting smoking.</p><p>Frank had only ever tried to quit once, back when he was fifteen and couldn’t afford his expensive habit anymore. Back then, he had gone cold turkey. He had his last cigarette and milked it for all it was worth, and eventually, it had become nothing more than a tiny nub. But he had fallen into this same predicament: his body had screamed at him for just the smallest taste of nicotine.</p><p>He remembers every headache, how his limbs would tire just from a few minutes of usage, how irritated and snappy he’d grown. Back then, he didn’t have any type of support system to encourage him to keep at it, to push through just how shitty he felt. So, after only a month and a half, he gave in. Bought a pack of smokes and hasn’t tried to quit since.</p><p>Now his body wants to play this game again, thinks it’ll be able to win. When he sleeps, his mind teases him with an image of a ghost. Of gloved hands taking his bloodied hands, of them guiding him to kill <i>over and over.</i> “You’re doing so well,” the soft voice would whisper in his ear, even as he struggled against the other’s hold, “Why stop now?”</p><p>Even though he misses Danny, even though <i>GOD</i> he wants that rush again, Frank pushes these thoughts away. He spends more time at his job, even makes Steve scratch his head from his new work ethic. He spends more time with his Legion, <i>anything</i> to keep his mind off the dark desires it still craved.</p><p>Though his Legion didn’t quite understand the extent of his problem, perhaps except for Julie, they were happy to be there for him. He knew he could keep at it this time— with the lack of murders in Ormond, there would be nothing to make him want to relapse, and he had people who supported him. Still, shit, it wouldn’t be easy. And he wasn’t going to get over this in a month and a half, but he would.</p><p>Just like Frank, Ormond slowly begins to return to normalcy. His victims are referred to as the ‘Ormond Five’ and the mayor of the town held a memorial service at Mount Ormond in dedication to them. Dedicated to all the deceased, of course, save for Preston. Frank didn’t go see it, not daring to return to the mountain, but his friends had told him it was “Something?”</p><p>Reporters came and went, wanting to get a glimpse of the town Ghostface terrorized. None of them were ever Danny and so Frank could care less. But as all things eventually do, the fad had worn out, and the town went back to its sleepy state. His Legion had decided to leave just as soon as the girls graduated, only a week after the dance. After lengthy debates, Toronto had become their destination.</p><p>And Frank desperately tries not to think about the states, tries not to think about what little town Danny had targeted next. He buries these wants deep within himself, forces himself not to think about the other man anymore. He even stops listening to the old voicemails. Perhaps it almost works, but his memories do not lie to him. He often thinks about the way Danny’s touches felt on his bare skin, thinks he sometimes smells his shitty cologne walking down the street, and of course— those eyes. Those dark eyes that still come to him in dreams.</p><p>“Frank.”</p><p>He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Julie, and he turns to look at her. Underneath the June sun, her blonde locks seem to shine even brighter. She had chopped her hair short, up to her shoulders, much to the absolute horror of her parents. It’s a good look on her— though he’s convinced she can shave her head and she’d still look beautiful.</p><p>“Come on, we’re already running late!” Julie reminds him and he laughs in embarrassment.</p><p>“Sorry, shit.”</p><p>The two of them pick up the pace, walking across the school’s parking lot to the entrance. Joey and Susie would already be waiting for them— it was the afternoon before the dance and though preparations were finished, Susie had been called upon to give a speech by her peers. </p><p>By the time they enter the gym, slipping in through the back doors to keep quiet, Susie had already begun to talk. Her eyes follow them and her grin only widens. She continues, talking about how grateful she was for the opportunity to lead her committee and how hard everyone worked. Joey taps the metal chairs next to him and the two other Legion members sit.</p><p>“Finally,” he whispers, earning a shushing noise from the row in front of him. Frank rolls his eyes and the three of them silently laugh. The speech is moving, really, and she finishes it off with:</p><p>“And I just want to thank my best friends, because without all of their love and encouragement, I <i>definitely</i> wouldn’t be up here right now.”</p><p>There were a few laughs from the dance committee and she tossed back her lavender locks in her own amusement. Once the affair is over, she bounds down the steps and goes straight towards the other Legion.</p><p>“Ever thought about running for office?” Frank jokes and she playfully slaps his shoulder.</p><p>“Shut up! Let’s get out of here, I’m starving.”</p><p>“Of course, Prime Minister.”</p><p>The four of them leave the gym, careful not to hit the decapitated dolls that hung from strings right above them. “I’ll pay.” Frank throws his arm over Susie as they stroll down the hall. “It’ll be my treat.”</p><p>“You still wanna go to the diner?” Julie squints at him. “Doesn’t that waitress hate your guts?”</p><p>“Sort of. It’s a long story.” Frank shrugs.</p><p>“Then how about we go to the cafe instead?” Joey suggests.</p><p>As Julie and Joey chatter about where they should go to grab some food, Frank glances down at Susie. “So. You excited for tomorrow?”</p><p>“Of course!” She glances up at him. “And you should be excited too, Frank.” Susie’s eyes gleam mischievously and a proud smile stretches across her face. “I promise— it’ll be a night you guys will <i>never</i> forget.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
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  <span class="noted">wow, i'm so glad everything worked out!! i guess everything ends happily ever after. uwu ... what do you mean we have three chapters left? oh boy. well, i'm <i>sure</i> it'll just be frank and his friends and their move to toronto!! don't worry about it too much!</span>
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  <span class="noted">thank you to my beta readers megidola and bwoo for all your help on this one! 💖<br/>see you all next week!</span>
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        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Fright Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Don’t laugh,” Frank warns, as Julie opened the front door to greet him. Her upper lip twitches as she tries to comply with his words, and she takes him by the hands. Her own were soft and warm and to Frank, they felt like home. She had painted her fingernails a greyish-green color, matching her attire perfectly.</p><p>“I won’t,” she reassures, “You look good.”</p><p>The dance, after all, was a costume party. Although the others had their costumes ready much earlier than him, Frank had been at a loss for what to wear. Joey suggested just throwing on his Legion mask, but the thought made the oldest teenager feel sort of sick. The bloodstained thing had been hidden deep within his drawers and he <i>was</i> going to throw it out at some point, definitely. He just hadn’t wanted to look at it— didn’t want a reminder of all the things he’s done. So, with that off the table, he went with Julie’s suggestion.</p><p>He wore a black jacket borrowed from Joey with a black shirt underneath, dark jeans, and dark boots, forcing himself to push past the stark reminder that it greatly resembled what he wore during the murders. Joey had swung by his house earlier to complete the rest of the look: Frank had never worn make-up before, and he felt <i>incredibly</i> foolish in it, but the junior had dismissed his worries. The artist had painted a realistic scar on his forehead, smudged his eyes with eyeliner, and had stuck two rubber nails on either side of his neck with body glue.</p><p>“It’s alive! <i>It’s alive!”</i> Joey had cried once he was done. Frank had replied by flipping him off.</p><p>Julie, at least, had decided not to let Frank be alone in his miserable attire. She wore a simple white dress that stopped at her ankles, revealing she wore black high heels that made her an inch taller than Frank. She had spiked up her hair with gel, made up her face with black lipstick and blue eyeshadow. Around her neck was a black tattoo choker. He was almost surprised she didn’t go and dye her hair black, but he figures her parents would have dropped dead right then and there.</p><p>“Is Susie ready?” Frank asks his bride, shoving his hands into his pockets. She shakes her head.</p><p>“She’s been running around like a headless chicken,” Julie informs with a frown, as she tilts her head back worryingly towards the girl’s bedroom. “She’s <i>really</i> nervous.”</p><p><i>Ah, shit.</i> Frank glances at the clock on top of the television set. The party wasn’t due to start for another hour, but the senior needed to be there to make sure that everything was running smoothly. Joey should already be there, so he hopes the boy would hold the fort down if anything went wrong. He makes his way to her door, hesitates just for a moment before he gives it a knock.</p><p>“I’m still getting ready, Jules,” Susie calls out. The tremble in her voice isn’t lost on deaf ears. Frank lets out an inaudible sigh, turns to Julie with a confused look, and she shrugs. He was never the best kind of guy to give a pep talk, but he replies:</p><p>“Sus. It’s me.”</p><p>“Frank?” Susie asks.</p><p>“Yeah. You know we have to get going soon, right?”</p><p>Susie is quiet for a moment. “Yeah, but I’m…” There’s a slight hesitation before she lamely continues: “Getting ready…?”</p><p>Frank leans against her door. “Isn’t tonight your big night? You’ve been working on this whole shindig for months, right? You don’t want to be late for it.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>There’s an awkward silence. Frank fiddles with his sleeves for a second before an idea comes to him. “I actually wore a costume.”</p><p>“Really?” This seems to pique Susie’s interest. “I thought you said you weren’t gonna.”</p><p>“I wasn’t, but I figured. What the hell. It’s for one night and it’s for you.” His voice becomes exaggeratedly disgusted: “You know, Joey actually put fuckin’ eyeliner on me? What the hell?” He slightly smiles as he earns a giggle, and swivels around to face the door. “And you’re gonna miss it because I’m about to wipe it off, so if you don’t open the door— that’s it.”</p><p>For a long moment, nothing happens, then the door slowly creaks open. A blue eye peeks at him through the crack. Frank raises an eyebrow and she sighs, defeated, before the door swings open. Susie is wearing a red cloak and an old-fashioned looking dress, resembling Little Red Riding Hood, clearly very much ready. She nibbles her lower lip as Julie goes over to meet them.</p><p>“What if it turns out to be lame?”</p><p>“Then it turns out to be lame. But it won’t be, because you worked your ass off.”</p><p>Julie nods in agreement, going towards her best friend and putting an arm around her shoulder. She pulls her tighter into the hug, receiving a grateful look from the other girl. “It’s gonna be fine, so stop stressing, okay?”</p><p>Susie nods slowly. “Right. Okay.” It is then that the old Susie vanishes once more, being replaced by a much more confident stance and a determined look in her eye. “I promised you guys a fun time, so I’d better deliver.”</p><p>Frank snorts. “If there’s no booze, I don’t see how <i>any</i> school function could be fun.”</p><p>Julie flips him off and he flashes his teeth in a cocky grin.</p><p>The three of them leave the room, with Susie snatching the picnic basket on her makeup table. Her father was working late, so there is no awkward moment of a parent trying to take photos that happened in every single teen flick. Instead, they simply walk out of the house, and she locks the door behind her. She gives Frank a quick once-over. </p><p>“You look nice,” Susie tells him approvingly, “Joey did a good job.”</p><p>Frank makes a noise that’s about as close as a ‘thank you’ as she was going to get. The three of them pile into his car and he even lets Susie pick out one of her mixtapes. It’s all ska music that makes him want to gouge out his eardrums, but he’s a good enough friend that he leaves it. </p><p>The drive to the school doesn’t take that long, but he’s surprised to see that there are already students lining up at the entrance, chattering among themselves. He supposes that the teenage population of Ormond hadn’t really gotten to have a ‘fun night out’ in a long while, thanks to the curfew and all. Being staff for the event, they’re given the luxury of parking alongside the cars of the teachers. His beat-up sedan looks hilarious next to the pristine cars the adults had.</p><p>They take the back entrance and Frank briefly remembers the time that the four of them had broken into the school to steal the answer key for their science test. It had worked, though he remembers the teacher being completely suspicious that Frank had managed to get a solid B. Frank smirks at the idea of crashing into the old hag but decides that she probably wouldn’t have remembered his face anyway, so it wouldn’t even be worth it.</p><p>The school’s lights had been dimmed to provide the spooky atmosphere that came with the theme. Some of the fog from the machine inside the gym had trailed out, lurking around the hallways. From the ceiling hung black streamers that tickle the top of his head, bats and spider cutouts decorate the rows of lockers, and there’s a large banner in red, oozing letters that read: “WELCOME TO FRIGHT NIGHT”.</p><p>It’s an odd mix of trying to emulate film horror and looking like one of those pop-up Halloween shops. Susie <i>did</i> complain about having to fight the faculty over what they could or couldn’t decorate. Whatever. In Frank’s opinion, as long as it didn’t get too childish, it was good enough. They stop to greet one of the ticket takers, who shares some weird joke with Susie that makes her laugh. She reddens when she turns back to her two best friends.</p><p>“Inside joke,” she explains.</p><p>Susie ushers the two of them into the gymnasium, leaving them as she went off to do her final preparations. It seemed the minute she had entered the school grounds, Susie fell back into her groove. Frank was pleased to see that the senior pushed past her anxieties— she was stronger than most people thought she was.</p><p>The DJ had already set up his station and was fiddling with one of the records. </p><p>Decapitated dolls hung from black strings, giving the illusion that they were floating. The walls had been covered in cardboard painted to resemble the decrypted old walls of a haunted mansion. Several props, such as an old mannequin splattered in red paint, decorated the room, not at all overwhelming the place. Frank had to give it to Susie: it seriously looked impressive in the darkness. There was a huge space for a dancefloor, but there were plenty of rounded tables and chairs for potential wallflowers.</p><p>The buffet tables, decorated with a black cloth, already had glass bowls full of various foods and bright red punch. God, any other time, he would have loved to have spiked it— but it was Susie’s night, and he didn’t want anything to fuck it up. Frank swipes a chocolate cookie from a platter instead, causing Julie to slug his shoulder. He shrugs it off, pretends like it didn’t actually hurt, and brings the cookie to his lips.</p><p>Teasingly, he nibbles only the edge and makes like he’s about to return it to the plate. Julie is quick to snatch it from his hand and takes a big bite out of it. They grin at each other as the lights begin to flash multiple colors. He glances up, looks back at Julie. “We haven’t danced together in a while,” he says, casually.</p><p>She smirks, cocks her head to the side a little. With the changing lights, her eyes seem to gleam mischievously. “Think I bought these shoes for nothing? All eyes are gonna be on us.”</p><p>“They always are.”</p><p>Julie takes another bite of the cookie. Despite the flirtatious banter, he knew that their affection for one another had long cemented itself as platonic in nature. A part of him was upset by this— wonders what it would have been in another lifetime, if they had stayed together. She was his cohort, his best friend, and he would do anything for her, even now. He loves her— that same small part of him always would. But they had been doomed from the start long before Danny had arrived: having become distant the moment Frank had been booted out of school.</p><p>Frank doesn’t really want to wallow in the ‘what could have been’. So instead, he snatches his treat back and finishes it off. Julie protests this, but he just sticks his tongue out at her. She makes a noise of disgust at seeing the half-chewed food.</p><p>“You’re so fucking gross!” She scoffs, “How old are you?”</p><p>He’s about to give what was definitely a witty retort when Joey approaches the two of them. He quickly swallows down the food, dusting off the crumbs on his fingertips with his pants. “Holy shit, Joey,” Frank can’t help but marvel at the other’s costume. Joey had taken an old trench coat he’d found and lovingly painted it so it resembled the prestigious coat of a pirate captain. Black with gold detailing, with a hat painted to match. The outfit was completed with a foam sword at his side. Joey preens at Frank’s words, extending his arm in order to flex.</p><p>“Took me two months,” Joey boasts, “Handpainted and everything.”</p><p>“And it was totally worth it!” Julie grasps at Joey’s sleeve, inspecting it closer. “You’re going to make my outfit for Halloween, right?”</p><p>Joey seems overjoyed at this idea. “Dude! We can all match.” He turns back to Frank with a large grin on his face. “You better start brainstorming ideas, you’re gonna help me make them.”</p><p>Frank raises his brows at the boldness of his friend’s words. “Me?”</p><p>Joey used the fake hook hand he was carrying to jab his friend gently in the chest. “You owe me for your facepaint.”</p><p>“Hey! I wouldn’t have asked you if I knew I’d have to owe you!”</p><p>“Too bad,” Joey taunts, good-humoredly. Frank flips him off and the three of them laugh. It felt… strangely <i>good</i> to not have Joey trying his best to please him. Like they were equals, exactly like Frank had wanted. A dark thought crosses him then: what if the Legion were only acting like this because he had asked them to?</p><p>He shoves that away immediately, relieved when the music begins to blare so loudly that his other thoughts are drowned out. Despite how loud it is, he hears the faint cheers from just outside the gymnasium doors. It looked like the crowd was eager and ready to go inside. The music itself is modern pop, not Frank’s style, but he’s just glad they weren’t playing the Monster Mash like he thought they would. Susie comes over to them then, giving her own compliments on Joey’s outfit.</p><p>“Well?” Joey asks her, after giving his thanks, nodding his head towards the doors, “Are you gonna keep the people waiting?”</p><p>Susie fiddles with the ends of her lavender locks and doesn’t reply. Frank frowns at this, shooting Julie a knowing glance, when the committee head perks up. “Oh!” She takes Joey’s hand, tugs it. “Actually, before we let that <i>huge crowd inside for them to judge my work,</i> let’s go pick a table!”</p><p>“Wh—” Joey begins, but is immediately led away by Susie. Julie cups her cheek and gives a sigh.</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>“Yeah, no kidding.” Frank shoves one hand in his pocket. “I thought she was over this…” He gestures aimlessly with his other. “Phase.”</p><p>“Phase?” Julie blinks.</p><p>“You know. Her being a nervous wreck all the time. I thought she got over that.”</p><p>Julie laughs in disbelief, dropping her hand and turning to face him fully. “Frank, that’s not a <i>phase.</i> She’s not a static movie character who can switch personalities at the drop of a hat.” She snaps a finger for emphasis. “She’s human. It’s just a flaw of hers that she may always have and that’s okay. We all have them.”</p><p><i>Huh.</i> Frank was so certain that this Susie was so much different than the previous one, but maybe that was just what he wanted to see? The thought makes him miserable. It was as if he had been hoping for <i>some</i> good to have been done onto Susie after he essentially forced her to commit murder. A shiver runs up his spine. It’s a scary desire. One that he refuses to wallow on, because that’s not what he was doing anymore.</p><p>“I’m not good at this kind of shit,” Frank admits, slowly, watching as Susie sits a bewildered Joey down at a table across the way. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to fix it.”</p><p>“Who says you have to fix it?” Julie asks, “We aren’t therapists.” As she begins to walk towards their other friends, Frank keeps right next to her. “We’re her support system, Frank. We just have to be there for her.” He lingers at that. Julie goes over to where Susie has sat down, resting a hand on her shoulder and whispering something that he doesn’t quite catch over the music.</p><p>His friends are comforting Susie and he stands there, almost unsure, almost afraid to interfere with the scene. As if his presence would only serve to make everything worse. Once more, he has become the outsider in his family, a feeling that had been gnawing on his bones for such a long time. He thought he fixed that, he thought he got rid of those insecurities, but perhaps— it was a flaw. Maybe it’s what made him human.</p><p>For a second, he pictures himself with a dark void in place of his face.</p><p>He steps towards Susie then and she sniffles as she looks up at him. Her nose was already turning red, her eyes beginning to water. He crouches down, hesitates before he puts a hand on her thigh. “Why are you so nervous?” He asks, “Wasn’t this supposed to be our night we’d never forget?”</p><p>Susie gives a shaky chuckle. “Yeah. I know, it’s just…” She flaps her hands. “Agh, I just. I keep thinking— what if everyone hates it? Like they think it’s too <i>cheesy</i> or something?”</p><p>“Sus, you and I both saw the line of people dressed up, right? They wouldn’t be wearing costumes if they thought the idea was stupid.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah.” She wipes her right eye with her knuckles. “I know.” She pauses, nibbles her lower lip, as she glances at her friends. “Am I being lame right now?”</p><p>“No,” Julie and Joey are quick to say in unison, with the junior giving a shake of his head for emphasis.</p><p>Frank frowns. “Nah.” He extends his hand, surprised that she takes it, and he pulls her to her feet. “It’s… okay to be nervous.” A quick glance at Julie for reassurance, who nods at him. “But it’s like I said earlier— you worked your ass off on this, so enjoy it.” He meets those big blue eyes. “You deserve it, alright?”</p><p>Susie forces herself to smile, but under Frank’s careful stare, it falls. Instead, she gives a firm nod. “Okay. Yeah. I can do this.”</p><p>“You always could,” Julie reassures her.</p><p>Susie sniffles again. “You guys… Thank you.”</p><p>“Come on, Sus,” Joey says, leaping to his feet. “Why don’t we go get you some punch or something?”</p><p>Susie flashes him a grateful look and Frank releases her hand. She turns back to the blond. “Um… Frank? Can you do me a favor?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“Can you let everyone in?” Her eyes flicker towards the gym doors and he follows her gaze. “I think I need to cool down, I don’t want everyone to see me looking like a hot mess.”</p><p>“Sure,” Frank agrees, just relieved that she was beginning to feel better. He wasn’t sure if he had it in him to continue giving her pep talks. So he departs from his friends, making his way to the large gym doors. Despite the darkness of the gym, it was easy to find his way around thanks to the bright colors of the lights. He wonders briefly if that’d change once the gymnasium was a crowded mess. He pulls open the doors, ready to let in the eagerly awaiting students, and pales at what he sees. It is like time has stopped, as if his heart has jumped into his mouth. And he stares, dumbfounded.</p><p>Because it’s Ghostface.</p><p>Frank stiffens, still blocking the way into the gym, eyes locked on the white ghoulish mask. Ghostface tilts his head slowly. It’s just the two of them— the crowd of people behind the dark cloaked figure doesn’t exist. A part of Frank wants to slam the door in his face, another part of him wants to take the man’s hand and race off and </p><p>“Hey,” says Ghostface in a brash-sounding voice, “Are you gonna let us in or what?”</p><p>Frank blinks out of his stupor. “Uh… huh?” It is then that he notices a girl dressed as a fairy wrapped around Ghostface’s arm. She had brown curls and a face like a fox— with naturally sly features.</p><p>“Yeah,” she pops her chewing gum that she was definitely not supposed to have, “We’ve been waiting forever.”</p><p>“Oh, shit uh.” Frank steps to the side. “Sorry.”</p><p>With that, the crowd fills in and Frank shivers as he realizes it’s not just one person dressed as Ghostface— there were dozens of people who had decided to pay tribute to Ormond’s Ghost by donning his attire. He watches them fill in, all of them have various builds and a few of them resemble Danny’s. Shit. This was just embarrassingly paranoid. He kicks open the gym door, no longer content to play doorman, and weaves his way through the crowd back to his friends.</p><p>They’re still at the table, chattering about something or other, but he’s quick to blurt out: “Are people allowed to dress up in full costume? Mask and all?”</p><p>Susie puts down her plastic cup, her lips stained red from the drink. “Um. Yeah? Why?”</p><p>“Isn’t that...” Frank finds himself mumbling, “Kind of stupid? Considering…?”</p><p>“What?” Julie asks, her voice a little louder than usual, “I couldn’t hear you over the noise.” She gestures aimlessly towards the crowd, which sounded like a drone over the music, which had only seemed to have been turned up louder to be heard.</p><p>“Nevermind,” Frank says, matching her pitch. He didn’t want to seem like a buzzkill— and why would <i>he</i> be concerned about whether or not someone was dressed like Ghostface? Technically, there wasn’t a reason he should be. He hadn’t worked with the killer, nope. He had spent all of his time with a journalist, that was the extent of his secrets.</p><p>The music stops and there’s a loud thumping noise as the principal has gone up to the stage, tapping the microphone. “Is this thing on?” Principal Lockhart asks, leaning into the mic. It gives its feedback, causing the students to groan and complain as they put their hands over their ears. The principal clears his throat— once, twice, before he speaks again. </p><p>“Hello students of Fairview High,” he says, each word being slowly stressed. Frank rolls his eyes, all those times he’d been sent to the elderly man’s office replaying in his mind all at once. “Welcome to Fairview High’s senior formal, themed after ah…” He adjusts his glasses. “Halloween.” He pauses, thinks. “And because it’s Halloween, we’ve called it Fright Night.”</p><p>“God,” Susie mutters, “He’s blowing it up there!”</p><p>“The school faculty and I have a few rules, a few rules you must follow...” He continues to drone on, which the four quickly tune out.</p><p>“Every day, I’m surprised he’s still alive,” Julie says, her arm slung over the chair she sat in. Frank takes a seat next to her. He’s rewarded by her leg pressing into his own, a warm gesture he didn’t realize he had missed as much as he did.</p><p>“That man’s probably going to outlive all of us.” Joey snickers.</p><p>Susie seems mortified by the thought, but then she giggles. “We’ll come back in twenty years and he’ll <i>still</i> be principal of this dump.”</p><p>“I’m never coming back here,” Julie scoffs, “Once I’m out of here, I’m staying gone. There’s nothing in Ormond worth coming back for.”</p><p>“Are you kidding me? There is something,” Joey argues.</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Julie challenges.</p><p>“Yeah!” He leans over the table, his tone playful. “We have to see if Lockfart is still alive!”</p><p>This sends the girls into a giggle fit and Frank quirks his lips upwards into a smile. His attention, however, has gone back to the crowd. To the sea of masks.</p><p><i>“Lockfart!”</i> Susie shrieks, but is luckily not heard over the microphone or the crowd’s chattering.</p><p>“Alright, fine,” Julie says after she recovers, “You got me there. We’ll come back, sneak a peek at the school, <i>then</i> leave forever.”</p><p>“Man…” Joey thinks. His wistful tone makes Frank return to the conversation. “You know, in twenty years, I’ll be thirty-seven.” He looks at his friends. “We’re going to be super fucking old. Think we’ll be complaining about the generation’s music?”</p><p>“Frank <i>already</i> complains about that!” Julie points out and Frank scoffs.</p><p>“Sorry, I’m not into all that boy band crap.”</p><p>“It’s too late for him!” Susie throws her head back dramatically.</p><p>“Back in my day,” Joey begins, earning a shove from Julie.</p><p>“God! Stop! I don’t want to think about that. We’re going to have actual jobs and a house and what if, Christ, some of us have <i>kids?”</i></p><p>They all make a face.</p><p>“Kill me if I ever become a stay-at-home mom,” Julie tells them, “It’s better that I’m put out of my misery.”</p><p>“And me,” Joey adds, “If I ever become some corporate pig.”</p><p>Susie shivers at the thought. “Twenty years is a long time. A lot of stuff can happen in between…”</p><p>“Let’s just forget about all that right now,” Frank cuts in, displeased by the route the conversation has taken. The last thing he wants to do is think about his future— or to think of himself as <i>one of them.</i> A lifeless robot with no other purpose than to fuck up the next generation. “Can’t we just enjoy tonight?”</p><p>The others, at least, seem to agree with his sentiment.</p><p>“—We’ve also noticed some troublemakers wearing Ghostface costumes,” Principal Lockhart scolds, “Did you all forget that one of ours died? Mr. Sullivan died, if you didn’t remember.” This sends a giggle through the crowd, mostly due to the affronted expression on his face. “Why! I have half a mind to shut down the festivities, but I won’t. Because this was all very expensive. But just know— any tomfoolery will have you expelled.” He waggles his finger threateningly. “Immediately!”</p><p>He pauses then, allowing the crowd to groan before he says: “That is all.”</p><p>The moment he steps away, the music plays once more, and the students cheer. The mood changed in an instant then, lively and exciting. People begin to make use of the dance floor right away and Frank is quick to whisk Julie away, leaving Susie and Joey to their conversation about some show they’ve begun to watch.</p><p>It’s been a while since he danced, but it’s like he never stopped. The song is fast-paced and the two of them move rhythmically to it. She moves like she was born to do so, something that had enraptured him back at the very first of her parties he attended. He had gone up to her, asked her for a dance. She had craned her neck, inspecting him, before she threw back her hair and asked him why he hadn’t done so earlier.</p><p>“Did you spike the punch?” She asks as she moves against him, her back pressed against his chest.</p><p>“What?” He laughs. “No. Should I have?”</p><p>Julie gives a thoughtful hum. “Maybe.”</p><p>They continue their dance before she speaks again once the song has changed: “You know, I only danced with you because you looked like a rebel.” She’s facing him now and their eyes are locked onto each other. “You looked like you could take me away from this place.”</p><p>“And I’m gonna do that, aren’t I?”</p><p>“You would have spiked the punch, back then.”</p><p>“I didn’t want to ruin this for Susie,” he tells her, the two of them moving apart only to come back together. She clasps his hand and he twirls her.</p><p>“Were you ever a rebel?”</p><p>“Sure.”</p><p>“I guess I just never really knew you. Even now.”</p><p>The song slows and he takes her into his arms, adjusting his position so she’s comfortable as they sway. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“You being all buddy-buddy with us, not lashing out or anything. It’s just so… different, I guess. Is this you?” Her hand rests on his shoulder. “The real you?”</p><p>Frank hesitates for a moment, unsure of what she’s expecting him to say. It’s in that moment that he swears her hands are stained with blood and he’s a split second away from shrugging it off his shoulder. He forces himself to calm down, ignoring the way the blood seems to inch from her hand to her arm and steadily trailing upwards. He slips his eyes close and opens them after a moment. The blood is gone.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he tells her, truthfully.</p><p>Julie considers this. “Well.” She smiles at him warmly. “I like this you.”</p><p>He smiles back at her. “Me too.”</p><p>They continue to dance through various other songs. During the slow love ballad, she wraps her arms around his neck and they’re pulled together real close. They move as one and Frank realizes that he’s never danced with Danny. Did the other man even dance? Though he doubts it, he can’t help but stay in that fantasy: of the man holding him, of them moving together to the song. And Danny would give him that cocky little smirk of his as he dipped Frank without a warning. His chest warms and he finds himself smiling like a dumbass at the idea.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Oh, nothing,” he says casually, snapping out of his thoughts at Julie’s gentle question, “Just thinking about how hot you look.”</p><p>She grins. “You’re <i>such</i> a liar.”</p><p>“Yeah. You love it though.”</p><p>Julie chuckles, giving a slight shake of her head. “You know, I don’t think I was ever gonna get into your head, Frank Morrison.”</p><p>Frank’s smile fades, only slightly, but it’s enough for Julie to catch. “It’s better you didn’t.”</p><p>They remain silent then, and when the song ends, he escorts her back to the table. “Punch?” He asks her and she nods. He goes towards the drink table, ignoring the various white masks that seem to watch him. He’s filling the cup when Joey comes over to him, a full plate of various sweets in his hand.</p><p>“Thought you guys would never leave the floor,” Joey jokes, in between a bite of an oatmeal cookie.</p><p>“Don’t talk with your mouth full of food,” Frank mutters without really thinking. Joey swallows.</p><p>“Shit, sorry.”</p><p>Frank blinks, stopping his pour of the punch midway before he turns to look at him. “And when are you going to finally dance?”</p><p>“You know this kind of place isn’t really my ideal night,” Joey huffs, setting the cookie back down on the plate. “There’s <i>so many people.</i> And way too many on the dancefloor.”</p><p>“Yeah, but you know how many girls have been looking at you?”</p><p>Joey contemplates this and Frank finishes pouring Julie’s drink. The two boys make their way back to the table and Frank delivers his bride her punch, which she gratefully takes. They all settle into their seats. </p><p>“So,” Frank turns his attention to Susie, “Think this night was a hit?”</p><p>“Are you guys enjoying it?” Susie asks. When everyone gives some sort of affirmation, she brightens. “Then yeah! It was a hit.” She’s grinning so hard, it’s infectious.</p><p>“What were you so worried about, anyway?” Joey asks, passing Susie a cookie, before he returns to munching on his own.</p><p>“I dunno. Don’t you guys ever just… have a feeling? Like something’s going to happen?”</p><p>“It <i>is</i> Friday the Thirteenth,” Joey concedes.</p><p>“I guess.” Susie shrugs. “But that’s just a day.”</p><p>“Really?” Frank chimes in, tilting his chair back so it's standing on its hind legs, “Because I remember a certain someone freaking out when she accidentally spilled a salt shaker.”</p><p>“Frank!” Susie hides her face in her hands. “Shut up! You said you wouldn’t <i>tell</i> anyone!”</p><p>“When was this?” Julie was dying to know.</p><p>“Back when we started going to the diner. I had to clean up the salt because she was going on about how she was going on and on about how she was going to have terrible luck for the rest of her life—”</p><p>
  <i>“Frank!”</i>
</p><p>“I’m just saying! Sometimes, you act all superstitious—”</p><p>“I’m over that,” Susie is quick to inform them, dropping her hands back to her lap. Her face was still bright red. “So! Whatever! Friday the Thirteenth. Just a day.”</p><p>“That’s the spirit,” Joey jokes.</p><p>Susie stands with a huff. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom.”</p><p>“Need me to go with you?” Julie teases and Susie jokingly sticks out her tongue before she walks away, pushing past the gym doors and going back to the hallway.</p><p>“We didn’t actually hurt her feelings, did we?” Frank asks, suddenly feeling a bit nervous.</p><p>“Huh?” Joey shakes his head. “Nah. She’s fine, we play like this all the time.”</p><p>“Look at you though! You’re turning so soft,” Julie says, as she puts her drink down.</p><p>“Fuck off.” Frank snorts. “I can’t check in to see if my friends are okay?”</p><p>Joey clears his throat, glancing around the gymnasium. “So, Frank, you were saying…? Girls were looking at me?”</p><p><i>“Dude,”</i> Julie deadpans.</p><p>Frank laughs. “Yeah, it’s either because of you or your outfit. But they’ve definitely been staring.”</p><p>Joey looks downright pleased, trying to find one of the girls Frank was talking about through the sea of faces. Julie glares at Frank. “Don’t encourage him.”</p><p>“What? Joey’s allowed to dance with whoever he wants.”</p><p>“There’ll be plenty of girls in Toronto.” Julie gives Joey a quick pinch to snap him out of his dopey trance.</p><p>“Ow! Hey! It’s just dancing, I’m not asking someone to marry me.”</p><p>Julie rolls her eyes. “Then dance with Susie!”</p><p>“Susie’s <i>fine,”</i> Joey says, “But she’s like my sister.”</p><p>“So you <i>are</i> trying to find someone!”</p><p>“Can you blame a guy? I see you two acting all mushy with one another—”</p><p>“We don’t act mushy!” Frank interrupts, sharply.</p><p>“— And it’s like a constant reminder that I’m single!”</p><p>“Oh boo hoo,” Julie chides jokingly, “Suck it up. You just want what we have.” She wraps her arm around Frank’s own, leaning into him. The three laugh at this and Julie makes sure to pull away before either party gets too uncomfortable with the touch. </p><p>Joey crosses his arms. “Well! I’m just—”</p><p>He doesn’t get to finish that statement.</p><p>A blood-curdling scream rings out, so loud it cuts through the music and noisy crowd. The three of them freeze, just as all the others do. “That sounded like…” Joey starts, but the three think better than to sit around, and they push through the confused masses. Frank shoulders the gymnasium door, cursing the fact that it had been closed after he had left it open, and they run down the hallway.</p><p>His eyes take a second to adjust from the flashing lights to the dimness of the rest of the school. They weave through corridor after corridor. Both boys follow Julie, whose heels are tapping against the tile and he’s afraid she’s going to trip and hurt herself, but her sheer determination and adrenaline keep her moving without an incident.</p><p>She swings open the restroom door, all three of them huffing and puffing from running. They push themselves in. And that’s when they see her.</p><p>Susie is standing as still as a statue, face pale, but when she sees her friends her hand lifts in a tremble. “She’s… She’s…” A finger pointing towards the floor, towards the strewn body of a curly-haired girl— the fairy from earlier. Underneath her is a pool of blood, that has seeped its way into the cracks of the tile. Her brown eyes were forever lifeless, wide, and still terrified. </p><p>Frank steps forward first, barely hearing Julie’s “Holy shit, that’s Tammy Peterson.”</p><p>He can not stop the adrenaline that shoots through his veins, even as he tries to shove it back down, it remains. His mind feels as if it has set itself aflame, torn between being excited over the crime and being absolutely disgusted. He struggles to force himself towards the latter, not wanting to seem out of place around his friends. He should not be feeling good over this. No. He has moved past this. He has moved past this. He has moved past this. HE HAS MOVED PAST THIS.</p><p>The girl’s right arm is outstretched and Frank’s eyes follow it, his heart stopping in his chest. By her hand is a folded up photo. It reads in black ink: “NO WE AREN’T.” He bends down, taking it gingerly in his hand. The corner of it has been stained with blood. Underneath the messy scrawl, is meticulously pristine handwriting that reads: “Are you sure?” Next to the question, is a frowny face.</p><p>“What is that? What’s it say?” Joey asks Frank, but he doesn’t hear the junior over the roaring in his ears. He turns back to them, keeping the photo’s writing hidden from view by pressing it against his chest.</p><p>“Frank?” Julie asks, sharply, holding Susie tightly in her arms, “What’s going on?”</p><p>He doesn’t reply to her.</p><p>He can’t reply to her.</p><p>He’s not even sure if he can even use words ever again. The world around him has begun to spin and he can’t even remember to keep himself steady, instead, he stumbles out past the three of them, still clutching the photo. The rest of the students have gathered by the restroom, all trying to peer in and get their glimpse of the dead teenager. He can’t make out any of their features, except for those wearing that ghoulish white mask. His eyes dart from each and every one of them, heart going so fast in his chest he can’t feel it pounding against his ribcage.</p><p>Ghostface was here. But with so many copying his attire, it was impossible for him to tell who it was under the mask. Who was watching the scene with a wicked delight. The lights come on fully. He’s nauseous, afraid for the first time because this crime was done for no rhyme or reason other than to intimidate Frank. He feels a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugs it off. Teachers have begun to move past the crowd of teenagers and there’s so much ruckus that he can barely even <i>think.</i></p><p>It is only when the crowd parts, just for a brief second, he spies a red mask peeking from around a corner, from the lockers. A chill runs through his body. The mask bore the same ghoulish expression, but it was adorned with devil horns. The person seems to realize that Frank is staring straight at them and slowly tilts their head, the action solely to taunt. They vanish deeper within the school.</p><p>Frank does not hesitate— shoves the picture in his pocket. He’s quick to shove past the crowd, ignoring as his friends call his name and ignoring those who protest him barrelling into them. None of that mattered. He had found Ghostface. </p><p>The fear turns into sheer anger that boils his blood— he had finally found peace in his life and this motherfucker <i>dared</i> to come back? No. That wasn’t going to slide with Frank. He was going to put an end to all this runaround once and for all. The killer had wanted to leave, he should have fucking left. Frank skids to a halt as he turns the corner, pausing as a few more teachers run past him. They were saying something on their walkie-talkies, yet to Frank, it only sounds like mindless murmurs. Too focused on trying to get to the restroom, they ignore him completely.</p><p>He peers down the hallway, wondering if they had completely ignored the murderer too. He takes careful steps, making sure that each one he takes is inaudible. The ghost had taught him how to be stealthy before and now Frank was going to use that against him. He warily continues his trek, wishing desperately that he had brought his knife with him.</p><p>The hallways, however, are eerily empty. He scowls, eyes scanning each area, but finds nothing.</p><p>He’s about to walk into another hallway when a hand clamps around his mouth. Another hand slinks around his waist, ignoring his muffled protests as he’s dragged into the janitor’s closet. He’s pushed against the wall and dismay fills him as he hears a lock click. Even in the darkness, he can vividly make out the red mask.</p><p>“What the fuck, Danny?” He spits out.</p><p>The hooded figure reaches up, grabs a hanging cord, and clicks on the light. Besides the change of mask, the costume was nearly the same— the major difference was an upside-down red triangle painted on his chest. The man gives an impish shrug, and in his familiar rasp says: “Well, it is a costume party. Figured I’d better dress up for the occasion.”</p><p>He leans closer to Frank and he can feel the burning intensity of dark eyes under the mask. “Don’t you look adorable? You know, some people say that Victor Frankenstein was the <i>real</i> monster.”</p><p>Frank shoves him away and though he can’t see it, he’s certain the other man is sneering beneath the mask. “So you were David King after all. You never even fucking left.”</p><p>“You caught on quick,” Ghostface breathes, enthralled, “I’m so proud of you, Frankie.”</p><p>The praise doesn’t do anything to waver Frank’s anger. “Why? Why didn’t you just <i>go?”</i></p><p>“Oh?” The killer tilts his head. “Did you really want me to leave that badly? That’s disappointing. I’m afraid I’m getting mixed signals.” He leans back into him once more, this time unmoving even when Frank tries to push him away. “See, weren’t you the one staking out my motel room?”</p><p>“That’s because I knew you were gonna try to play some fucking mind games,” Frank scoffs.</p><p>“Mind games?” Ghostface asks innocuously, “Me?”</p><p>Frank scowls.</p><p>“Maybe I’m just here to give you a second chance.”</p><p>“I didn’t want to go with you then. What makes you think I want to go with you now?”</p><p>The killer makes an amused noise. “Liar.”</p><p>“Fuck you. You don’t know shit about me.” Frank glares into the deep holes of the mask’s eyes. “You think that I was gonna follow you around like some lovesick little bitch? I have my own life. I have a family that I care about. The murders were fun, but I’m finished. You win, alright? You win the game. I’m not playing anymore. I don’t <i>want</i> your fucking lifestyle.”</p><p>Ghostface says nothing for a moment and Frank braces himself for a knife in his stomach. Instead, a gloved hand flitters to his neck. His throat constricts on its own accord, refusing to relax even as the only thing that occurs is a thumb stroking his skull tattoo.</p><p>“I have to say,” Ghostface replies, “That stings a bit.”</p><p>“Like you can feel anything,” Frank retorts.</p><p>Ghostface snorts. “What? Do you <i>seriously</i> think that little of me?” He leans in closer and Frank swallows against his thumb as the man’s body presses against him. The aroma of shitty cologne wafers in the air. The mask presses against the crook of his neck and there’s a playful whisper in Frank’s ear: “I can tell you why I’m here, if that’ll make you happy.”</p><p>Frank doesn’t respond, moving his head to the side so as to not look at the other man. This only makes the killer chuckle. “See, I tried to leave, really I did.” A hand ventures up Frank’s stomach, to his chest, and above his heart. Frank wills his heartbeat to slow down, but he knows it is an impossible feat. “I was all packed up and ready to go…”</p><p>The cold of the mask is gone in an instant and he feels a warm breath against his skin, which broke out into goosebumps. “But I thought about it. Really thought about it. And I knew I couldn’t leave you behind.”</p><p>“Why?” Frank croaks out before he can stop himself. The way the man speaks is absolutely mesmerizing— charming and dangerous. </p><p>“I’m in love with you, Frank.”</p><p>With those simple words, everything crashes around him. It is like he’s drunk an odd concoction of joy and horror, both mixing in his stomach and spreading throughout his body in heatwaves. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that he heard wrong, because no. <i>No.</i> That can’t possibly be true. “You’re lying,” Frank whispers, shivering as the man lets out a breathy chuckle.</p><p>“When have I ever lied to you?”</p><p>He doesn’t have an answer for that and Danny moves back, his hand gently grasping his jaw and tilting his head towards the other man. His words are gentle: “Hey, look at me.”</p><p>Frank has no choice. He opens his eyes and meets the dark void of Danny’s.</p><p>“When have I ever lied to you?” He repeats.</p><p>“I don’t…” Frank’s eyes dart to the side, his mind trying to race and find some evidence, but it’s so foggy he can not think about anything but Danny’s confession. It continues to replay in his mind, over and over, even as he begs himself to stop thinking about it. This felt like a repeat of the night in the woods. “I don’t…”</p><p>“Ssh,” Danny shushes him, a faint smile on his face even as his partner trembles in his touch. He tilts Frank’s head upwards and the boy obediently allows this, like he’s nothing more than a marionette on strings. “I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you. I knew that you’d be mine. And aren’t I yours? Didn’t you say I couldn’t go anywhere without you?”</p><p>“Yes,” Frank wasn’t even sure if he said it out loud.</p><p>“We’re Thelma and Louise, baby. Wherever I go, I want you right by my side. You had your fun, you got to play pretend with your toys, but now you should go back to where you belong— with me.”</p><p>“They aren’t…”</p><p>“Frank,” Danny says as he gently strokes his cheek, and Frank hears the cold edge to his sweet tone, “Don’t you love me too? That’s why you kept looking for me at the motel. Isn’t that right?”</p><p>
  <i>Did he love Danny?</i>
</p><p>The way the other man spoke was so assured, like he was catching Frank up on what he should have already known. He had missed him, but… He was happy now, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he content to bask in normalcy? Wasn’t he glad to not dream of blood every night? Yet, though his dreams were no longer of murder, they had only been of one person. Of dark eyes and cocky whispers. He can do nothing but stare, all anger dissipated in place of a distressing confusion.</p><p>“I—”</p><p>Danny doesn’t give him a chance to finish that sentence before his lips are pressed against Frank’s. And oh, how Frank melts into it. He shouldn’t have. Some part of himself is banging its head in frustration as the teenager parts his lips, allowing Danny to consume all of him. Frank’s hands, still flat against the man’s chest, now curl and take fistfuls of the raincoat.</p><p>He missed this. Oh god, how he missed the way Danny tasted. He doesn’t protest as Danny makes quick work of his jeans and underwear, letting them fall to his ankles. The man’s hands slide to his thighs, scooping him up with ease, and pinning him against the wall. Frank supports this by wrapping his arms around the man’s neck. They only pull apart when they need air. Whatever had been in Frank’s mind is long, long gone.</p><p>“Danny,” Frank whispers.</p><p>“Yes?” Danny whispers back.</p><p>“Fuck me.”</p><p>“Anything for you,” Danny murmurs, kissing him once again. He pushes aside his cloak, unbuttoning his pants and freeing his member. When they pull apart, the killer pulls off his glove with his teeth, discarding it to the side. He puts his fingers to Frank’s mouth and he begins to lap at them before he takes them in his mouth.</p><p>“Good boy,” Danny whispers and it sends a wave of euphoria through him. He sucks at them as if he was sucking the killer’s cock, making sure to run his tongue across the underside of them in order to coat them with generous amounts of saliva. Danny continues to give him words of encouragement and <i>god,</i> all he wants to do is hear more.</p><p>He wasn’t sure if he loved Danny, but <i>god,</i> did he love the way the man sang his pretty words.</p><p>Once they’ve been lubricated enough, Danny takes back his fingers. With gentle care, he circles them around Frank’s hole, causing the dropout to arch his back in delight. Danny presses another deep kiss on the boy’s lips as he inserts the first finger, muffling Frank’s whimpers.</p><p>Danny laughs at the noise, and maybe if Frank had been in a better state of mind, he would have told the other killer to fuck off. The next finger is inserted, then the third. Danny takes his time preparing Frank and the other groans at his taunting. Danny preoccupies Frank by kissing him until he’s breathless, then moving onto leaving hickeys along his collarbone.</p><p>Danny finally removes his hand, leaving Frank with an awful empty feeling. The killer presses him against the wall as he adjusts himself for entrance, but the two pause as more footsteps run past the closet. This seems to snap the teenager out of his trance.</p><p>“Why did you kill her?”</p><p>“She’s my gift to you,” Danny replies with ease and before Frank can respond to that, the killer digs his fingers into his sides, so strongly Frank knows it’ll bruise. A shockwave of pleasure courses through him, his neglected cock twitching as it leaks pre-cum. </p><p>The killer pushes himself into his partner and Frank can’t help the cry that escapes him. Danny shushes him, so Frank buries his head in the crook of the killer’s shoulder to muffle his noises. It was painful, the spit not being nearly enough lubrication Frank was used to, but there’s a rush of excitement that came with that pain. Danny, as patient as ever, takes his time inching himself deeper and deeper into Frank until he is completely inside of him.</p><p>It is only then that Danny takes hold of Frank’s aching cock, using his ungloved hand in order to pump it up and down in quick strokes. Frank lets out shaky puffs, trying not to moan. Danny begins to thrust himself in and out of the dropout in time with his hand’s movements, and this causes the dropout’s leg to bounce from the overstimulation.</p><p>“Don’t you get it?” Danny whispers against his neck, “This is where you should always be. I can treat you right, Frank. I can give you the freedom you’ve always craved. And don’t you want it?”</p><p>Frank wants it. He wants it very badly.</p><p><i>“Yes!”</i> He whines.</p><p>“That’s because you’re such a good boy,” Danny praises, going faster and not giving Frank a chance to adjust to the change. “And you’re not going to make any more mistakes, are you?”</p><p>Frank shakes his head feverishly, not quite sure what Danny was talking about. Still, the killer isn’t too pleased by his lack of a verbal response, so he pauses. Frank makes a desperate noise as Danny’s strokes become languish, thrusting forward to cause more friction against the other’s hand. God, he feels like his cock is about to burst, the urge to cum overtaking him. “Well? Are you?”</p><p>“No,” Frank says, desperately, “No, I’m not. I’m going to be good. Please, Danny—”</p><p>That’s more than enough for Danny. Once again, he’s back in Frank’s ear with a purr: “Go ahead, baby. You deserve it. Come for me.”</p><p>And Frank does. He throws his head back, staring at the ceiling light above. It taunts him. Danny uses his gloved hand to catch his seed, not allowing any of it to get to hard-to-clean areas. The sensation of the leather glove around his cock nearly makes Frank die right there and then, and how he wishes the killer had jerked him off with that instead. When he finishes, Danny easily pulls off the other glove and keeps it inside-out to avoid any spillage. </p><p>Danny then continues to fuck Frank, the gentleness of before was gone. It was as if he was releasing all his pent-up anger towards the dropout, using him like a ragdoll even as the teenager remained spent in his arms. Frank thinks he might have just gone to Heaven.</p><p>It is not much longer until Danny’s seed fills Frank and the two of them linger there in their aftermath. Frank doesn’t think he ever wants to leave, content to just stay like this with Danny forever. But all things must come to an end. So Danny is the first to move, carefully setting Frank back down on his feet, making sure he can stand. When it’s obvious that he can, Danny stuffs himself in his pants and Frank pulls up his own clothes, feeling a bit grimy due to still having the killer’s cum in him.</p><p>“So?” Danny asks, when they’ve both cleaned themselves up as best as they could. “Should we get going?” He pulls down his mask, eyes following Frank as he makes his way to the door.</p><p>“Huh?”  Frank glances back at him in confusion, gripping the doorknob.</p><p>“We can’t stay here, can we?” Ghostface coos, “We’d get in trouble.”</p><p>Frank hesitates before he shakes his head. “I… Look. I don’t know.” He notices a shift in the killer’s stance immediately, straightening up. Still. Danny hadn’t done anything to hurt him, so he quietly continues: “I have to talk with my friends—”</p><p>“Frank,” Ghostface abruptly cuts in, irritated, “I’m a patient man. But not that patient.”</p><p>The teenager frowns. “What? You want me to just <i>vanish</i> out of the blue? I can’t do that to them. Give me a day, that’s all I ask.”</p><p>He tries to leave, but Ghostface is faster, and he’s able to snatch the dropout’s wrist with ease. He spins him around, back pressed to the door, and before Frank can throw a punch, a cloth is pressed against his face. Frank gives a muffled protest, flailing as best he can in an attempt to throw the killer off, but it only delays the inevitable.</p><p>Frank is still staring past the mask’s eye sockets when his vision becomes blurry, blurry, then completely dark.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">it seems like the second i said this would be our last hiatus, the monkey paw curled. i had a lot of family issues last week, causing me to go into a deep depression, which in turn caused me to grow physically sick. i was essentially stuck in bed, either sleeping or spending my waking hours in extreme pain. writing was the last thing on my mind, so i apologize for the delay on this. the second i felt okay enough to write, i went right back to work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">moving aside, let's talk about this chapter. because i've been <i>dying</i> to get to this chapter. the image of frank in the restroom, seeing the wave of ghostface masks, only to spot the devil mask came to me so early on and so vividly that i had thought to myself: "i need to get here somehow." so the idea of the dance was formed. this chapter actually moved around a lot in my outline— originally, it was going to be where ghostface was revealed to be danny. then it got moved to the middle of act 2. then it became a two-parter in act 3. but i really like how it ended up in the end. i'm really, really thrilled to finally share this with you guys— it's literally been in my head since... chapter two? maybe? lol.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">i'm eager to hear your thoughts, i really missed you guys! and i really hope this chapter was worth the wait. (: we're right back on schedule, so expect a chapter next monday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="noted">ty to megidola &amp; bwoo for helping me beta read this bad boy !!</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. The Great Pretender</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“You know,” Danny says casually, his eyes pointed on the road ahead, “You really did piss me off back there.” With one hand keeping on the wheel, he places the lit cigarette back into his mouth, taking a deep drag. “Normally, I like that stubborn streak of yours. I mean, if I wanted total obedience, I’d get a dog.” A sneer comes to his lips then, his eyes shifting towards the slumped boy sitting next to him.</p>
<p>The amusement vanishes in a mere instant, replaced by a frigid expression. “But we could have left ages ago,” he continues, his tone never changing, “This could have all been completely preventable.” A dramatic sigh leaves his lips as he exhales smoke. “Well, whatever. <i>You</i> had to keep making me the second option...” </p>
<p>He pulls into the motel parking lot, the tires rolling over some loose gravel. It jostles the beat-up silver car but isn’t enough to awaken the teenager. He likely wouldn’t awaken for a few hours, but Danny had a steady supply of chloroform he could drug the teenager with— <i>if needed.</i> Danny’s eyes flicker towards the large, tacky red statue of a seven that rested on the corner of the lot. It was easy to miss, but carved into the very bottom of it were the initials FM + JK.</p>
<p>Danny had considered carving it off or replacing them with his own initials in several fits of jealous rage but ultimately left it. It served, in his opinion, as a good reminder why he was still here in this snoozefest of a town in the first place. Besides, he was completely above such petty grade school bullshit.</p>
<p>He parks in front of Room 5, which had been the home of one David King for the past few months. The black-haired man lingers for just a moment, scanning his surroundings, before he carefully removes the raincoat, drying with blood. Carefully, he places it with the rest of his things in a black duffle bag. The motel owner was still out and about, humming as she exited from one of the empty rooms further down. </p>
<p>His eyes narrow in contemplation, part of him wondering if he should wait until she passes. No— if she came by this way, she’d be more concerned to see the passed out teenager and him lingering in a car that wasn’t his. He steps out, crushing the half-smoked cigarette underneath his boot.</p>
<p>Without the raincoat and mask, Danny was simply dressed in all dark clothes. He moves to the passenger seat like a dutiful boyfriend, opening the door for Frank. He stifles the laugh that nearly escapes him as Frank begins to slump towards the ground. He catches him in his hands with ease. “Woah there,” he whispers, “Where do you think you’re going?”</p>
<p>He pulls him out, the younger killer’s feet dragging behind him. Danny carefully places him under his arm, tucking him closer to his chest, and slings one of Frank’s arms over his shoulders. He closes the door with his foot and makes his way to his motel room, hoping that he was far enough away that—</p>
<p>“Oh! Mr. King!”</p>
<p>Danny pauses right in front of his door, heaves a sigh as he shifts Frank’s weight to keep himself steady. He straightens himself up as best as he can, watching with great displeasure as the old woman approaches him. As she comes close enough to see him, his expression has changed into a polite one. He smiles. </p>
<p>“Evening Miss Jones,” he says, his voice easily slipping back into the faint British accent he had given this character. It turns out it had been a good choice, because it always made her flustered. Haha, gross. Still, it had been good for keeping her in line— he had noted she often listened to King’s requests and ignored Olsen’s.</p>
<p>“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Sheila?” She asks, bashfully.</p>
<p>“Very well, Sheila.” This causes her to give a little scoff and bat her hand playfully. “What can I do for you?”</p>
<p>“Oh, well I…” Her eyes fall towards Frank and she suddenly frowns. “What’s wrong with him?”</p>
<p>David chuckles, eying the dropout fondly under dark lashes. “Ah, my friend here was at a costume party and drank a bit too heavily. He called me in a drunken stupor, said I was his designated driver.” He turns back to Sheila. “So here I am.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you take him home?” Sheila asks, tilting her head. Her bushy white mane follows after this motion. David gives a half-shrug.</p>
<p>“Truth be told, I’m not quite sure where that is. You know how it is— we say friend, but mean acquaintances.” He gives her a wink and she nods in understanding.</p>
<p>“Poor thing,” she says, sympathetically, “You know, I have quite a few hangover cures. I can bring one over—”</p>
<p>“That’s very generous of you,” David kindly interrupts, “But with some peace and quiet, I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Hoping she caught the finality to his words, he turns back to the door, inserting his key. The door clicks open and he gives her a nod of his head. “I’d better take care of this, you have a good night now.”</p>
<p>He notes that she doesn’t move, which meant that she was probably going to speak again in an attempt to keep the bland conversation from ending. David’s only gotten one foot in the door when she blurts out: “Oh! By the way, Mr. King, how’s your novel going?”</p>
<p>David pauses, glancing at Frank, before turning his head back to her. His smile is much wider than before and it causes her to smile back. “You know, I’m finishing up the last chapter tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“Really?” Sheila clasps her hands together. “Wow, that’s amazing!”</p>
<p>“I think so too,” David admits slowly, never one to be prideful of his works, “It’s my greatest work yet, if I may be so bold.” He tilts his head up, his grey eyes glinting like stone under the moonlight.</p>
<p>“Does that mean you’ll be leaving soon?” Sheila asks, disappointment laced in her words. He hoped she was more upset over the lack of income than anything else, but he figured that wasn’t the case. </p>
<p>“I’m a drifter,” he patiently explains, “I go wherever the inspiration takes me.”</p>
<p>She nods, but he knows that she doesn’t understand. Sheila has lived here in Ormond her entire life, like her parents before her and like their parents before them. Maybe she dreamed of adventure once, but that idea had long faded out of her mind. Now, she was content to run the family business. To live and die in the place you were born— it was the fate of many that lived in such a sleepy place, something that sickened Danny to his very core. </p>
<p>“Do you have a title for your book?” She finally asks, cutting through the lull of silence that had overtaken them.</p>
<p>He pauses, considers for a moment, shifts Frank again. “The Great Pretender.”</p>
<p>“Oh? Like the Platters song?”</p>
<p>“Freddie Mercury,” David corrects. As she falls quiet once more, pushing up her glasses, he finds this as his cue to exit the conversation. “Have a good night, Sheila.” He doesn’t wait for her to say it back before he fully enters his room and closes the door behind him with his spare shoulder.</p>
<p>What a nuisance. He had debated killing her many times over, but had decided it’d be best that she’d stay alive. He’d need a witness after he was gone, someone who would defend his aliases with their life: </p>
<p>
  <i>“He was my tenant for months,” she’d say dismissively, “He was a respectable gentleman. You must have the wrong man.”</i>
</p>
<p>Danny could only hope that wherever he’d stay next, his landlord would be a lot less talkative.</p>
<p>King’s motel room was pretty much a carbon-copy of Olsen’s, so he placed Frank on the boy’s usual bed by the bathroom. Frank would have definitely been excited to see how he'd decorated the place— there were several dark bags on the floor, full books and journals stacked on top of the dressers. A few cameras were placed on the desk, accompanied by newspaper articles from all sorts of publications on Ghostface. </p>
<p>
  <i>“I fucking knew it!” He’d blurt out.</i>
</p>
<p>Too bad it’d all be cleaned up by the time Frank awoke. It’s almost a shame, really, but it’s his fault for taking so long to put two-and-two together. Though, he did catch on to his David King persona quite quickly— faster than even Danny had anticipated. That only makes him giddy. See, normally, he’d have a person completely figured out by now: what their habits were, how they’d handle themselves in a given situation, what makes them swoon and what makes them tick. But with Frank, there were still surprises.</p>
<p>
  <i>“I don’t want your fucking lifestyle.”</i>
</p>
<p>Danny sighs, pushes his hair back, and looks down at the dropout. “What am I going to <i>do</i> with you?” He chides. Frank doesn’t respond. The man clicks his tongue, grabbing the chair from the desk and bringing it next to his bedside. It was a mockery of someone watching their loved one in a hospital bed, like in all the movies. </p>
<p>He observes him carefully. It’s what Danny did— observe people. It’s something he’s done ever since he was a child. He’s always found them interesting, after all, no one was exactly the same. Everyone had different talents and flaws, different quirks. They were all so useful to study, in his line of work. He admires the dark bags under the boy’s eyes, a bit disheartened to see that they’d begun to fade.</p>
<p>He reaches out, gently strokes Frank’s face.</p>
<p>Danny’s killed people for less than what Frank told him. Part of him was tempted to grab his knife, stab him in his sleep for his transgressions. Hm. That’d be so boring, wouldn’t it? To have spent all this time with the teenager only to kill him so unceremoniously? Maybe Danny should rouse him awake first, let him sleepily whisper his name in confusion, before his eyes went wide and wet with tears as he felt the knife twist inside his chest.</p>
<p>The killer lazily picks at the fake scar on the teenager’s forehead and though the teenager twitches, he does not awaken. Truthfully, he had bigger plans for Frank. See because no matter how much he claimed otherwise, Danny knew what Frank really wanted. He craved the high of a fresh kill. <i>He craved power.</i></p>
<p>The dark-haired male chuckles softly as he finds where the scar was loose and peels it off with ease. Much better. His hand trails to his neck and he plucks off the foam nails and crushes them in between his fingers. That silly little costume was beneath Frank. After all this time, he was still trying to hide behind different disguises, wasn’t he? </p>
<p>“Silly boy,” he murmurs.</p>
<p>It wasn’t the first time he had someone kill with him, maybe it wouldn’t even be the last. See, people were drawn to him like moths to a flame. There had been so many people who had fallen for Ghostface and his charisma, and wanted to take their own bite of the forbidden fruit. And Danny— why, he wasn’t a selfish man— he’d been happy to indulge them each and every time.</p>
<p>Danny was used to people getting blood on their hands, becoming afraid. Normally, it bored him, and their frantic attitudes only served to add to his victim count. Frank was different, intriguingly so. He’d been the first who had murdered before Danny had even come into the picture, and it hadn’t taken much to coax him into doing it again. </p>
<p>He knew that Frank was always like Danny— the desire to kill lying in slumber inside of him until it had been awakened by his first kill. Maybe it would have stayed that way if the Fink murder had never occurred. <i>God,</i> he wishes that he had seen it first-hand— he’s jacked off many times at just the mere thought of it. The fear and adrenaline he must have felt, how feral he looked, covered in blood. </p>
<p>The killer leans back in his seat, letting it tilt back. It had been a theory at first, really, but the savagery in which Frank killed Gage couldn’t be ignored. When Frank killed, he killed with passion. He killed simply because it had always been in his nature to do so. Danny had wanted him to destroy the mirror image of himself and the teenager didn’t disappoint. Even when he was upset with the older man, even when he was distrustful, he still went in for the kill.</p>
<p>Wasn’t that just fascinating?</p>
<p>See, Frank didn’t just crave violence— he craved companionship, someone to trust and guide him. And wasn’t Danny just the perfect candidate? After all, he’s been nothing but kind to him. Frank knew that he wanted only the best for him, even if he was being <i>a little shit about it.</i> Why else would he continue to fawn over the killer? Danny’s eyes narrow, remembering the way his confession. Was. Not. Reciprocated.</p>
<p>He rises then, lets his finger flick the silver barbell that rested on Frank’s brow. The dropout had hesitated. Danny takes the piercing in between his fingers and just for the briefest second— he was tempted to just rip it off his flesh. No, no. He couldn’t be mad at Frank— his mind was clouded with all the bullshit his boring friends had filled his head with. He couldn’t admit to his feelings, that was fine. Danny knew the truth, knew what the dropout was too afraid to say.</p>
<p>Danny would just have content himself with the fact that his cum was still inside Frank.</p>
<p>Besides, he did love that piercing, and it’d be a shame to get rid of it. It was character-defining!  Said so much about the blond without saying anything at all. He would be happy to take Frank to get more: he pictures him with pierced ears, a tongue piercing like the one his dear Julie has. Danny imagines it’d feel good around his cock. He’d look good just for him.</p>
<p>Frank’s chest rises and falls steadily. </p>
<p>It was certainly not the first time he had watched the teenager sleep. Though the dropout insisted otherwise, he was an incredibly light sleeper. It was as if the slightest movement could stir him back to consciousness. Danny figured it was from having to live in different homes throughout his life; no one would possibly be able to sleep easily under those circumstances.</p>
<p>He was always a bit of an insomniac himself, so watching as the teenager sleeps, trapped inside his slumber, was almost cathartic. How funny. No one’s ever affected Danny in that way before. Maybe he really <i>did</i> love him. The killer laughs softly at that, reaching into one of the drawers and grabbing one of his instant cameras.</p>
<p>He snaps a photo of Frank, making sure to get close to his face. The composition had to be just perfect— as Danny was quite the perfectionist. The flash does nothing to alert Frank. The photo slowly comes out of the camera and he delicately takes it in his hand. It was important to not shake the polaroid, or else the photo would be blurry.</p>
<p>He moves to one of the dressers, pulling the first drawer open to reveal a blue binder. He opens it, admires the photos of Frank he had taken in the past— of him at work, with his friends at the diner, coming out of the stores, and even of some of him up in the lodge— before he flips to one of the last pages in the album. </p>
<p>Danny hadn’t expected to strike gold when he came to Ormond. He had only found out about the small Canadian town through his boss at the Roseville Gazette— she had been from there, often complaining she traded <i>“one shithole town for another.”</i></p>
<p>And when he had to leave Florida, he figured a change of scenery would be nice. He was wrong. If there was one lesson to take away from his time in Ormond, it was that cold mountain weather fucking <i>sucked.</i> He set his sights on sunny California, where he wasn’t going to need to have five layers underneath just to stay somewhat warm.</p>
<p>He slips the developed polaroid into an empty slot in the album. The longer he stayed here, the more he hated it. It was no wonder that Frank and his groupies had wanted to leave this place. Danny smirks, looking at a jar full of money that rested on top of his dresser that read: “Get-Outta-Ormond Fund”. </p>
<p>The killer had to thank the Legion— he’d definitely put it to better use than they would have. He closes the album and places it back inside its resting place, shutting the drawer absentmindedly.</p>
<p>It was… his third day in Ormond, back in January, when he spotted them. The four of them were walking down the street, probably just having come from the diner. They were caught up in whatever nonsensical talk teenagers chattered about. He had just been scoping out the area, as he usually did, trying to get a feel for the residents there.</p>
<p>They had passed him, not offering him a second glance. That was, after all, the purpose of Jed’s character. He was meant to be meek, able to blend into the background without anyone noticing. Danny had almost been quick to dismiss them as well, but then their leader glanced back.</p>
<p>The two of them had locked eyes, just for a brief second but it felt like an eternity had passed, before he went back to talking with the blonde wrapped around his arm. But Danny had taken one look at those bags under his eyes and that scowl on his face, and he knew. After all, a predator always recognized another predator.</p>
<p>And Danny was infatuated immediately.</p>
<p>It was, to his dismay, that Frank’s routine was nothing short of boring. The dropout would wake up, drive to work, drive to the school, pick up his friends and drive to the diner, eat, go home, sleep. Rinse and repeat. It had frustrated Danny to his very core— he was an investigative journalist, he <i>knew</i> there was something more to this story than what was being let on.</p>
<p>So one day while Frank was gone and the house was empty, he climbed in through his bedroom window, searched through his belongings, and found two very important items— a knife and a bloodstained mask. Oh, the laugh that had escaped Danny when he saw it, when he brushed his fingers against the paper mache and a sick delight coursed through him. </p>
<p>He had turned his sights to the other members of the group, dismissing Susie and Joey both after a few days. They were boring, even more so than Frank, but they didn’t seem like anything more than sheep— followers desperate to keep the attention of their dear leader.</p>
<p>Danny got his answer from Julie.</p>
<p>She too was a predator, a hungry wolf with the urge to hunt again. He liked her the instant he began to put his focus on her— she was powerful, unabashedly so. She wasn’t afraid to put her foot down, wasn’t afraid to talk back to Frank when she thought he was being too much. </p>
<p>It was nearing midnight when she had snuck out of her home a handful of days into stalking her. Danny had been staking out her room from his car, and he watched with great interest as she climbed down the rose trellises. At first, he had thought she was off to see Frank— but quickly realized that wasn’t the case.</p>
<p>She had gone to her car, driven off, and of course, he followed. He kept a distance behind her— but she seemed like a woman possessed, and he was almost certain that even if he had collided his car into hers she would have kept on driving as if nothing had ever happened.</p>
<p>They drove up to Mount Ormond and she parked near the lodge. It was not a new place for him— he had gone to check it out on his first day here, learned it had been the former hideout for the Legion. It was an odd place, like something ripped straight out of <i>The Twilight Zone.</i> It was as if darkness had strangled the area, though Danny had shrugged it off.</p>
<p>He waited as she stayed in her car, and he began to wonder if she had spotted him after all. After a few long heartbeats, she had stepped out, popped open the trunk, and pulled out a shovel. She then wandered into the woods. Curiously, he trailed after her.</p>
<p>She seemed to know the woods inside and out. Danny definitely didn’t and wasn’t too keen on getting lost in them, so he made sure to follow her every movement. It was bizarre— she moved with sheer determination. When she glanced back, he noted there was a gleam to her eyes under what little moonlight shone through the trees. It hadn’t been quite clear to him— but he believed it to be hesitation.</p>
<p>Julie stopped in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Danny had taken a quick note of the time— a thirty-minute walk or so. She stared down at the snow before she plunged the shovel into it. And Danny watched from the trees as she continued to dig and dig and dig.</p>
<p>She finally stopped, as if admiring her handiwork. Julie had bent down and Danny wasn’t an idiot. He knew what she just uncovered, without even having to see it. After all, he <i>was</i> quite the expert in this field.</p>
<p>A body.</p>
<p>They had hidden a body.</p>
<p>With that revelation everything became clear to him— why they all acted like such good little children despite their masks and weaponry, their trashed hideout, the hungry look in both Frank and Julie’s eyes. Danny remembers smiling from ear to ear beneath his mask as the game began to brew in his head.</p>
<p>Through some of his own research, he was quick to discover the fact that a man had disappeared from the town— a janitor by the name of Gregory Fink. It was hilarious to Danny that no one had bothered to consider that a murder had happened. It was the way all small towns worked— they all think it’s such a nice and safe community that they never consider the dark alternatives.</p>
<p>He had returned a week later on his own accord and uncovered the body of the disappeared janitor. He still wore his name tag and all. Danny hummed, bending down and scrunching up the fabric. He took out his knife, cutting away his name. If the town was too stupid to figure it out, well, that was on them.</p>
<p>The serial killer had let the corpse rot for a while before he called up the park ranger as an anonymous concerned citizen, claiming he saw a body during a hike. The ranger, who spent most of his time sleeping on the job, had taken a few days before he went up to check it out— and the rest was history.</p>
<p>
  <i>“It’s just, m-my boss wanted me to cover this murder…”</i>
</p>
<p>The look on Frank’s face had been priceless. Pure, unadulterated fear. Oh, Danny had been blessed by the mere sight of it. It was a shame he wasn’t able to capture the moment with a photo. It’d been so hard to keep himself from smiling. Frank didn’t even remember seeing Jed before— showing just how little the dropout had paid attention to the world outside of himself. Danny adored it.</p>
<p>No matter the bravado put on, it seemed Frank still had some flaws to him after all. That would only make things more fun, in Danny’s opinion— a project that he could take his time on. After all, he liked to take things slow, liked the buildup of the chase almost as much as the chase itself.</p>
<p>He moves from the drawer, snapping out of his thoughts when he hears a groan from the dropout. He goes back to his side, peering closely at him. “What is it?” He asks, playfully, knowing there would be no response. Part of him wonders what he was dreaming about, but he decides that he doesn’t really care.</p>
<p>If Frank did well tomorrow, then it’d be the first time he’d ever take someone along with him for the ride. Usually, he was sick of his cohorts by now. There had only been one other person who had come as close as the dropout— back in Roseville.</p>
<p>His name was Isaac.</p>
<p>He was handsome— dark curls and dark eyes, naturally tanned skin that had been kissed by the Florida sun. He had come to Roseville in order to find inspiration for his novel, but preferred to spend his time in Miami. They’d met at a club, when Danny had been stalking out a potential victim. He had been at the bar, and when his victim had paid for his drink, Danny had taken a quick peek at the check— taking a note of the number the man had left the bartender.</p>
<p>He had felt eyes burning in the back of his head, so he had turned his attention to the dance floor, surprised to see Isaac staring at him. The man continued to dance, but when they locked eyes, he gave a cocky smile and mouthed: <i>“I saw that.”</i> And the serial killer knew instantly— a predator, after all, could always recognize another predator.</p>
<p>The conversations between the two of them had actually kept Danny entertained. Better yet, Isaac had solved Jed’s double identity within a newspaper or two. He had confronted his boyfriend, said: <i>“You write with too much passion for this to be an outsider’s perspective.”</i></p>
<p>And Jed had shrugged and replied: <i>“You’re right. What are you going to do about it?”</i></p>
<p>Isaac thought about it briefly before he said: <i>“I want in. It could help me write my story.”</i></p>
<p>And Jed had sneered, asked: <i>“So what? You want to be my partner-in-crime?”</i></p>
<p>
  <i>“You know it, Jed baby. We’re Thelma and Louise— if you drive off this cliff, I want to be right there with you.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Actually— name’s Danny.”</i>
</p>
<p>So Danny had pretended to think about it for a long time before he agreed. The two of them made quite a duo— with Isaac donning one of his spare Ghostface costumes. They had a good system going: Danny being the voice on the phone and Isaac scaring the victim into Danny’s knife. Together, they were able to wipe out more than ten people.</p>
<p>Things had grown sour when the Rosevillian police department found they couldn’t do things on their own and handed the case off to the FBI. An agent contacted him, asking for what information the journalist had. Jed had complied, of course, but it was his sign that he needed to leave.</p>
<p>Jed had completely flown under their radar— meek, unsuspecting Olsen always played his role beautifully. Still, he wasn’t going to sit around until their eyes focused back on him.</p>
<p>His first instinct had been to gather his things and Isaac, to whisk the man away with him onto their next venture. But he had thought it too risky— and that’s when a plan formulated in his head. He had liked Isaac, more than he had liked any of his previous relationships, but when it came down to himself or Isaac— he’d pick himself every single time.</p>
<p>So, instead, he had knocked on Isaac’s door frantically. The man had opened the door for him, eyes wide. <i>“What?”</i> He had asked. <i>“What’s going on?”</i></p>
<p>Danny had shut the door behind him, shaking. <i>“Babe. They know. They interviewed me today. About us. We’re the prime suspects.”</i></p>
<p>Isaac said nothing at first, but he quickly moved towards the bedroom. Danny followed after him, watched as he grabbed a bag, and began stuffing his belongings in it. <i>“Shit! Shit. Danny, we need to get out of here.”</i></p>
<p><i>“It’s too late for that,”</i> Danny had told him, terror enveloped in his words as he seized him by the shoulders, <i>“They know our faces, we can’t go anywhere now.”</i></p>
<p><i>“What the fuck are we going to do then? I can’t go to jail!”</i> Isaac wailed and Danny had engulfed him in a hug. The man had begun to tremble, but under Danny’s warmth, he settled. He had never seen his partner crack under pressure before— there was something greatly intriguing about it.</p>
<p>
  <i>“I know. I know. So I have a better idea.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“What… what is it?”</i>
</p>
<p>Danny pulled away, no expression on his face. <i>“We’re going to kill ourselves.” </i></p>
<p>A long silence had followed his words.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Are you fucking insane?”</i>
</p>
<p><i>“We can’t give them the satisfaction,”</i> Danny had replied, forcing himself to stay calm, <i>“They can’t take us alive.”</i> He took the man’s hand in his own, feeling just how slick it had grown with sweat. </p>
<p>
  <i>“There has to be another—”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“There isn’t. Remember? You said you’d drive off the cliff with me.”</i>
</p>
<p>Isaac sucked in his breath. It didn’t take the two of them long to change into their Ghostface outfits, and the two passed half a bottle of whiskey back and forth before it was empty. They took their designated positions on the floor of Isaac’s apartment, right across from one another. The two of them stared into each other’s eyes, unsheathing their combat knives.</p>
<p><i>“On my count,”</i> Danny had whispered and Isaac nodded. <i>“Three… two…”</i> The two of them put the knives to their own throats. He hesitated for just a moment, unable to stop the way his hand shook. Then, he finished:</p>
<p>
  <i>“One.”</i>
</p>
<p>They both sliced their necks. Blood spilled out of Isaac and his eyes grew as large as an owl’s when he noticed Danny was still very much intact. <i>“W-wha..”</i> He had managed to choke out.</p>
<p>The serial killer watched him in fascination before he rose to his feet, waving the knife in his hand. <i>“This one’s fake.”</i></p>
<p>And Isaac had laughed, the betrayal and disbelief ringing throughout his entire apartment. He laughed until his throat could no longer make any noise, until he was just shaking his shoulders. Danny crouched next to him, but Isaac did not attempt to attack him. He just kept up his silent laugh until all his movements ceased and his head lulled lifelessly to the side. </p>
<p>There was that euphoric surge that came with each death he witnessed, but it didn’t last as long as he had anticipated. Maybe it was because he hadn’t actually died by his hand? Or maybe because he was still feeling the effects of the alcohol? His blood had become as hot as sand under the scorching summer sun, but a cool relief had come in the form of a wave. He proceeded to rip out a blank page from one of Isaac’s half-filled books. </p>
<p>He had studied Isaac’s handwriting, knew just how to intricately mimic it, just like he did with every partner he had. And so, in his pristine penmanship, wrote:</p>
<p>
  <i>“I can’t take this anymore. I know they’re onto me. I’m not going to let them kill me when I can do it myself. You’ll know the truth, you can read my magnum opus. See how I’ve penned each word with the blood of my victims.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Your Ghostface,</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Isaac Reyes”</i>
</p>
<p>The drive to Ormond had been a lonelier one than he expected and Danny had kept glancing at the empty passenger seat like someone should be there. A part of him regretted his actions, an incredibly rare occurrence for someone who never made mistakes. He pushed that feeling away: he needed a guaranteed safe getaway— pinning the crime completely on Isaac had bought him enough time.</p>
<p>It had been worth it.</p>
<p>He rented a motel room as Jed Olsen, still latching onto the identity from Florida. It was a risky move, but he… he felt like he couldn’t <i>let go of it just yet.</i> And the motel manager, an old lady with a wild white mane, had given him one long look, asked politely: </p>
<p>
  <i>“Sweetheart, you seem down in the dumps. Is everything alright?”</i>
</p>
<p>It took everything in Danny to keep in character, to keep himself from snapping and telling her off for even <i>daring</i> to get into his business. So he stared at her blankly, before Jed frowned, as if surprised by her words. He had to compose himself, had to keep his cool as his mind ran through his long list of lies. He adjusted his glasses, stuttered out: <i>“T-truth be told… I was taking care of my sick mom, and well… um… she passed away.”</i></p>
<p>
  <i>“Oh, honey...”</i>
</p>
<p>Danny snaps himself out of the memory when he hears his name muttered out. He delicately takes the hand of his partner, pulls it to his lips, and plants a kiss. “Ssh, it’s alright.”</p>
<p>There was no further reply, so Danny releases him after he gives his hand a tight squeeze. Isaac hadn’t made it, but Frank— Danny had high hopes for him. This time, the passenger seat wouldn’t be empty. He’s certain the teenager won’t let him down.</p>
<p>Danny decides he’s had enough of flashback hour. There was still one final show to put on, after all, one last chapter to David King’s novel. He had so much to prepare, and reminiscing on the past wasn’t going to do him any favors. He takes his small black journal out from the top drawer of the bedside dresser, flipping through the pages.</p>
<p>“Aha,” he says triumphantly, putting his finger down on the page to keep it steady once he found what he was looking for. He reaches for the telephone then, dials the number.</p>
<p>The phone rings. And rings. And for a moment, Danny figures he should hang up and try again when he hears a matronly voice:</p>
<p>“You’ve reached the Kostenko residence.”</p>
<p>“H-hi,” his voice has become younger, a bit shy. “Mrs. Kostenko?”</p>
<p>“Joey?” She asks, “What are you doing calling at this hour?”</p>
<p>“Um,” Joey pauses, almost like he’s afraid to continue. That was Mrs. Kostenko for you— she had an iron grip over the entire town. She was the type of woman to snitch on a trouble-making child to their parents. “Is Julie there?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” she replies slowly, “She is. But Joey, it’s very late and we’ve all had a long day—”</p>
<p>“I know, I know,” Joey interrupts, “But I just wanted to talk to her, make sure she’s okay? You saw what happened on the news…” He trails off and she sighs, sympathetic.</p>
<p>“You poor dears. I know you must have been terrified. What was the school <i>thinking,</i> allowing a party like that? I’m definitely going to bring this up at the next meeting...” She mutters the last part.</p>
<p>Joey shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what else to say. “Yeah…”</p>
<p>“Well. Alright,” Mrs. Kostenko finally relents, “But not for too long, alright?” Joey gives a grateful noise of agreement. She covers the speaker in the palm of her hand, but he can still hear her shout: “Julie, pick up the phone! It’s Joey!”</p>
<p>After a moment, there are two clicks: one of Julie grabbing her phone and one of Mrs. Kostenko hanging up.</p>
<p>“Hello?” Julie answers, dully.</p>
<p>The voice that answers is rougher from years of cigarettes, more tired: “Julie?”</p>
<p>There’s a shuffling noise at the end before she replies in a more lively manner: “Frank?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Frank replies, “Yeah. It’s me. Sorry, you know how your mom gets—”</p>
<p>“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Frank, where the <i>fuck</i> did you go?”</p>
<p>He sighs. “I… I have a lot to explain.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you fucking do!” She hisses. “What the fuck is going on? The police had us held up in the school gym for hours. Susie was a complete wreck. We really needed you back there—”</p>
<p>Frank grits his teeth, letting his annoyance die down before he continues apologetically: “I know. I know, shit Jules, I should have been there.”</p>
<p>“Well, it’s too late for that. I just want some fucking answers.”</p>
<p>“I’ve been keeping a lot of secrets. I… I know.” He allows himself to babble: “But I swear to God, I didn’t kill her. I was with you the entire time, you know I—”</p>
<p>“I know,” she cuts in sharply, “You didn’t. So?”</p>
<p>“So… I’ll explain everything that’s going on with me. I promise. Can you meet me at Super Seven  tomorrow, at maybe ten?”</p>
<p>“Frank,” Julie says, after long hesitation, “My mom’s not going to let me go. Not when there’s a fresh fucking body.”</p>
<p>“Just say you’re going to meet Joey if she asks.”</p>
<p>There’s another quiet and Frank fiddles with the cord, growing bored of all the unnecessary silence. He knows that Julie’s mother trusts Joey, that she wouldn’t stop the senior from meeting him no matter what the circumstances were.</p>
<p>“Alright,” Julie says, finally, “Ten.”</p>
<p>“It’s the fifth room,” he tells her, straightening up, “I promise. Everything will make sense then.”</p>
<p>Her tone is stiff, completely untrusting: “Okay.” He doesn’t blame her for being upset with him. How could he have just <i>left them behind</i> like that?  Just what kind of friend <i>was he?</i></p>
<p>Frank smiles, no longer able to keep the relief from his voice. It was just too easy. </p>
<p>“Goodnight, Jules.”</p>
<p>“Goodnight, loser.”</p>
<p>The line dies.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">“Don’t be silly,” Danny says, with a ghost of a smile. “The killer never reveals their tricks until the third act.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">well, it’s the third act.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">—</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">after i showed megidola chapter ten and the pov shift to the sullivans, she told me: “this is good! when is the danny pov chapter?” and i replied: “never?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">my thought process was this— it would show just how mysterious of a character danny was if the reader got to look into everyone’s head besides danny’s. and so that was the end of that. for like, a day or two. because then i started thinking.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">i thought: wait, but danny is a fucking narcissist, he’d love to talk about himself. so wouldn’t it be more powerful if he chose when to let you into his perspective? his thought process was a lot different than frank's, so it was definitely an interesting chapter to write— so many callbacks!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">this chapter was always the second to last, because i knew this was an important and rare thing. there’s so much going on here, obviously, as it’s meant to explain a lot about both his characterization and how his relationship with frank began. bet you guys forgot the body had been uncovered huh?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">in my opinion, there’s also plenty of interesting comparison and contrast you could make between danny’s two partners. after all, you’ve probably noticed that some of the things they talk about is awfully similar to what frank's been told by danny.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">well. either way... this is it. the last chapter before the finale. whew, i’m. nervous. but ready. if you’re nervous too, know that i’d never put something out that i’m unhappy with. and my betas would never let me put something out that they’re unhappy with, lol. so let’s finish this ride strong.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">by the way, since we’re on the subject— ty to megidola and bwoo for beta reading this!! u guys already know i owe you my entire existence!!!</span>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Violent, Unsound of Mind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Huh?</i>
</p>
<p>Was Frank picturing things… or did he hear someone call his name? It was hard to distinguish what was dream or reality; a thick fog swirled in his mind and he was left with this hollow feeling— no pain, no exhaustion, just nothingness. He had felt this feeling several times before, so many times it was an old enemy, but there was no anger. No hatred. He struggles to stir himself awake upon hearing his name again— only a bit louder this time, closer, and he can distinguish its femininity— and more importantly, it was <i>afraid.</i> This is what finally digs into his skin and snags him from his strange slumber:</p>
<p>
  <i>“Frank!”</i>
</p>
<p>His head lifts too quickly and his mind has to take a moment to catch up. Blurriness remains in his vision, like he’s just experienced the shittiest hangover in existence— and he has to blink it away multiple times. It is then that he realizes exactly what his predicament was and alarm overtakes him, akin to being struck by lightning. He has been bound to a chair: his wrists tied behind the back of it, his ankles tied to the front legs— he appears to be the mirror image of Julie, who is seated only a few feet across from him.</p>
<p>She didn’t <i>look</i> injured, but that small relief does nothing to alleviate Frank. She’s frantically searching his face, confused and terrified, and holy shit it <i>crushes</i> him. She watches him struggle fruitlessly, it feels like a boulder has been hurled into his chest. While their chairs faced each other, there was one more chair that faced both of them— this was one empty. But he knew who it was for.</p>
<p>After all, Frank recognizes where he is right away— how could he not? He recognizes the bland beige walls, the lack of personal decor. This had to be David King’s room. If this was his room, then… Danny couldn’t be too far behind. He suddenly feels incredibly ill. The last thing he remembered… was Ghostface roughly grabbing him, putting a rag to his face. His whole world becoming engulfed in pitch darkness.</p>
<p>
  <i>“I’m a patient man, but not that patient.”</i>
</p>
<p>A flare of anger pushes past his nerves, though he wasn’t sure if it was directed towards the serial killer or himself. For a moment, he blames himself— he should have just left with Danny, he should have— but he throws this thought away before it can seep itself further inside him. More importantly, what the <i>fuck</i> was the killer planning? There’s the tiniest murmur in the back of his head that answers this question, but Frank could not afford to be afraid right now. He continues to try at his restraints, ignoring the rough burns that were beginning to form.</p>
<p>“Stop,” Julie tells him, her voice a low whisper. He looks back at her— she had become composed and he knew that she was trying to put on a brave face for him. Frank does what she orders, forcing himself to calm down, and she continues: “You <i>have</i> to tell me what’s going on.”</p>
<p><i>“I don’t know,”</i> Frank admits after a heartbeat, but this doesn’t seem to be the answer she’s looking for. </p>
<p>Her eyes shift to the side in an attempt to hide her hurt. What did she want him to say? His mouth dries. He wasn’t lying to her. He didn’t know what the killer had up his sleeve or how long he’d been planning this. Frank recalls that Danny had told him he’d never lay a hand on his friends, but that’d been forever ago now. The man hadn’t lied to him, but what was keeping him from holding onto his word?</p>
<p>Nothing.</p>
<p>Absolutely nothing.</p>
<p>And there was never anything, to begin with— yet Frank had trusted him like a fool. There’d been so many people in his life that called him stupid and he never believed it, but right now, right now all he wanted to do was bury his head in his hands. Danny had told him he loved him. That was probably bullshit too, just a sweet little lie to lure him back in. It hadn’t worked, not like he had <i>wanted</i> anyways. </p>
<p>Julie returns her gaze on him, her eyes as sharp as emeralds, filled with determination. “Hey. Focus.” Frank snaps out of it and looks at her. “We need to get out of here before he comes back.” She juts out her chin towards him. “How tightly did he tie your hands?”</p>
<p>“Pretty tight,” he grunts out as he tests them. He had some wiggle room, but in his blind frenzy might have tightened them himself. He glances around the room for anything that might help— knives or a lighter, <i>something,</i> but it’s just an ordinary fucking motel room. It wasn’t like he could have gone far anyway. “Where did he go?”</p>
<p>“I… I don’t know,” she answers carefully, “When I woke up, he wasn’t here.” He can still feel her stare burning holes into his flesh. They remain quiet before the blonde breaks the silence once more: “Did he make you call me?”</p>
<p>Frank furrows his brows. “What?”</p>
<p>She sucks in her breath. “Nevermind.” He’s about to push her further, but her eyes fall to his jacket. “He didn’t take your knife?”</p>
<p>He’s never had his knife— he didn’t bring it to the formal and the last time he used it was… Still, he glances down, noting that his attire was no longer what he wore yesterday. He still donned Joey’s black jacket, but he could feel the tightness of the turtleneck around his neck. His dark jeans and combat boots were the finishing touches to the outfit he used in all the murders. There was no reason to think about it right now— it appeared like Julie had been right: he had his sheathed knife in the jacket pocket.</p>
<p>The handle of it now stuck out, having shifted around when Frank had attempted to get out of his restraints. Her unspoken plan dawns on him. “Shit. Jules, you’re brilliant.”</p>
<p>“I know.”</p>
<p>The two of them work in tandem, taking small steps towards one another. Frank scooted himself forward— which was rough to do on the carpet— as Julie began to turn her own chair around. If they could get close enough to one another, she could easily swipe the knife from him and cut herself loose. They had to be careful: one wrong movement and the chair would tip and fall over. The way they were tied, it’d be next to impossible to get themselves right-side-up again.</p>
<p>Even more dangerously: their captor was still nowhere to be found.</p>
<p>There was a possibility that he was looming in the shadows, waiting for his moment to attack. He strains his ear, trying to listen for any movement in the kitchen or bathroom area— but besides the noises they were making, there was nothing. Every second felt like hours. Every movement felt like their last. The teenagers could not let themselves become deterred. There could be no mistakes.</p>
<p>Not now.</p>
<p>A cold relief washes over him when he’s close enough that he can lean forward, being caught by Julie’s own chair. It tips back for a moment before she regains her balance. Her hands grasp and flail at nothing for a moment, but he shifts as much as he’s able— watching with bated breath as the knife reveals itself more and more. He stills himself when it begins to wobble, inwardly begging that it won’t fall to the floor.</p>
<p>“Can you move a little to the left?” Julie asks and Frank nods before he does just that, giving her easier access to the knife. She grasps it firmly and they both let out the sigh they had held. He takes his time leaning back, forcing the chair steady as she begins to try and unsheathe the knife.</p>
<p>The sound of loud footsteps outside causes the two of them to freeze and their eyes follow the dark silhouette that appears behind the drawn curtains. <i>“Shit!”</i> Frank hisses and the two rush to reposition themselves back. If time had slowed down considerably when they were focusing on passing the knife, now it was as if minutes were mere seconds. Frank’s heart was pounding so wildly in his ears he could hear nothing else. Not the key clicking into place, not the door creaking open.</p>
<p>They had barely made it back to their original positions, with Frank’s gaze pointed towards the door, as it swung open. Julie stiffens, perhaps having seen the look on his face. He had been expecting the ghoulish white mask— <i>that</i> he could handle: the impersonality of it was easier, because at least then he’d know it was all just bullshit and he was just a dumb pawn all along, partner to victim. But instead, he is met with dark gray eyes and shaggy black hair, and a lazy smile drawn across a pale face. </p>
<p>Though he still wore his Ghostface outfit, with the mask being pushed to the side, it was undeniably Danny. He can no longer tell if it is from fear that his heart is beating. The killer holds up a gloved finger to his lips in a shushing motion, though Frank wasn’t even sure if he remembered how to speak. He stays dumbly silent as the door is gently closed behind the dark-haired man.</p>
<p>Julie whispers something to him, but Frank is only fixated on the killer. Danny mouths <i>“Relax, baby”</i> which does nothing more than twist a knot in his stomach. The man then places back on his mask firmly on his face. He steps towards them, his voice dipping back to the familiar rasp, mockingly apologetic: “I’m <i>so sorry</i> I’m late. Had to take care of some unfinished business.”</p>
<p>He swivels the free chair around, sitting with his chest against the back of it. “Anything interesting happen while I was away?”</p>
<p>There’s no reply to his question— Julie glares at the masked killer and Frank was certain that if it had been anyone else, they would have jumped to their feet and ran to untie her. But Ghostface doesn’t move, the mask tilted towards her. It’s a staredown, though Frank is sure she can’t see past the black mesh under the dim lighting of the room. Eventually, she turns her head away and Ghostface slowly tilts his head upwards, victorious. The mask looks a lot more threatening when he’s on the receiving end.</p>
<p>“Hmm. Guess not. You know, if I were the one tied up, I’d <i>certainly</i> be trying to escape,” his words are drawn out, and Frank keeps his eyes on Julie. He knows that she’s feeling just as wary as he is— from this angle, there was no way she could begin to cut the rope without the killer noticing. He grits his teeth in frustration, trying to come up with some way to keep the other man’s attention on himself. Frank can’t think of anything that doesn’t simultaneously out his identity as the man’s partner to Julie.</p>
<p>He tried to keep his two worlds separate for so long, but now they had collided. Deep within himself, he knows that he can only delay the inevitable; Julie would find everything out one way or another. Yet he can’t bring himself to say it, the words clinging to his throat as if still desperate to keep up the illusion. Frank <i>wasn’t</i> with Ghostface anymore— no matter what the events of last night suggested— and he <i>wasn’t</i> going to kill anymore, he had vowed this to himself. That didn’t hide the blood that had already stained his hands; the blood of his previous victims that would never wash away— no matter how many times he’s tried.</p>
<p>Frank thinks back to his promise he made to Julie.</p>
<p>“Then again,” Ghostface continues tauntingly, “Maybe you’re into the ropes?”</p>
<p>The blond scowls, which only makes the killer chuckle darkly. “How about we cut the bullshit,” the dropout says, cold, “And you tell us what we’re doing here.” </p>
<p>There’s a sleaziness to how Ghostface moves, how he reaches down to his ankle strap and pulls out his knife. It felt like a show, but for only one member of the audience. The side of the blade is jagged, like teeth, and it serves to make both teenagers as still as a statue. The killer begins to tap the hilt of it against the wooden chair, in some bizarre rhythm that Frank can’t place. </p>
<p>“You’re so rude, Frank. Hasn’t anyone taught you any manners?”</p>
<p>A playful threat, but a threat nevertheless. <i>Watch your tone.</i></p>
<p>And here he thought Ghostface liked it when he acted out. Frank narrows his eyes, refusing to be frightened off by the killer— he wasn’t like the rest of their victims. He wasn’t one of the mindless masses, one of the sheep to be devoured by the wolves.</p>
<p>“No,” he answers.</p>
<p>He knows by the roll of the killer’s shoulders that he’s nothing short of amused. So it looked like Ghostface hadn’t wanted Frank to play meek after all. Even when he wasn’t trying to, he still seemed to walk right into his traps. And that’s what this whole thing was, wasn’t it? Just another trap. Worry gnaws at his bones— if that was the case, why did he involve Julie? Did he mean to kill them both and was just drawing it out for entertainment value?</p>
<p>“How do you know his name?” She asks, sharply.</p>
<p>“Well, I know everyone’s names,” Ghostface replies, as if the two of them were having a casual conversation under much more normal circumstances, <i>“Julie Kostenko.</i> Just makes it all the more personal, don’t you think?”</p>
<p>When he once again receives no reply, the killer heaves a dramatic sigh. “You two could stand to be a little less boring, you know!” He brightens, perking up visibly. “Ah, I have it! How about we all play a little game? Lighten the mood?”</p>
<p>Julie shifts her eyes back to Frank and he understands right away— this was their chance to get his eyes off of her. He scoffs and the killer turns his head to watch the dropout. “A game? What <i>kind</i> of game?”</p>
<p>“It’s called <i>The Liar’s Game,”</i> The killer draws out the name of it slowly, as if there’s a special emphasis that Frank’s supposed to catch, “I came up with myself.”</p>
<p>Frank has to keep tugging him along, buy Julie enough time. “Sounds stupid.”</p>
<p>“You wound me, really, you do,” Ghostface replies, the fake cheer gone from his tone and replaced with a familiar bored monotone. Although Julie seems surprised by the change in voice, the dropout doesn’t bat an eye. He had drawn out Danny— any blow to the killer’s ego seemed to break whatever persona he was wearing. He couldn’t push him too far, one wrong word and he’d end up with that knife in his stomach.</p>
<p>“Fine then,” Frank says, craning his neck out towards the killer as best as he could. The awkward position strained him, but he knew it would keep the man’s eyes on him— a wild curiosity, what would Frank Morrison do next? “You gonna tell us the rules or what?”</p>
<p>“Well since you asked so nicely…” Ghostface was back to his good-humored rasp. “The rules are completely simple. I wanted to make sure anyone could play it.” The killer begins to move his head back, perhaps to face the both of them, so Frank quickly diverts his attention—</p>
<p>“Stop wasting my time, just say it already.”</p>
<p>“Wow, someone’s eager. That’s good!” Ghostface reaches out and pinches Frank’s cheek harshly. “Shows a <i>real</i> winning attitude.” Julie’s eyes widen, but she continues to work. The killer leans back then and Frank inhales sharply— but nothing happens. It seems that Julie had hidden the knife once more.</p>
<p>“The game is played in turns. I’ll ask you a yes or no question and you can choose whether to tell a lie or tell the truth.” He goes back to tapping the knife rhythmically. “We’ll keep going until one of you tells a lie. That makes you the winner!” Ghostface’s voice becomes low, menacing: “But you know… when there’s a winner there’s always a loser, isn’t there?”</p>
<p>“What happens to the loser?” Julie asks, hesitant.</p>
<p>Ghostface doesn’t reply, just taps the harsh plastic of his mask with the side of his knife. The answer is not lost on either of them. A cold sensation washes over Frank, but he’s quick to think on his toes: “I thought you hated liars more than anything else.”</p>
<p>Julie whips her head towards the dropout, flabbergasted. <i>“What?”</i></p>
<p>The serial killer only chuckles, ignoring the high school student’s outburst. “Aw, you paid attention. That’s sweet.” He gives a half-shrug. “You’re right. I <i>do</i> hate liars. But the two of you have never lied before, right? Might be a long game, but oh well. We have all the time in the world.”</p>
<p>The blonde is still staring at Frank and <i>fuck,</i> he knows that she probably has a million questions running through her head. His focus is on the serial killer— was he expecting him to lie? But he should know there was no way he was going to, especially if that meant making his friend the loser of the game. A dark realization stabs him— as painful as if the killer had attacked him right there and then. Ghostface knew. Ghostface <i>knew</i> that Frank wasn’t going to let anything happen to Julie.</p>
<p>
  <i>That meant the questions…</i>
</p>
<p>“Let’s start with you, chatter bug.” Ghostface points the knife towards Frank. Perhaps noticing how the teenage has paled, he hums. “Don’t worry, it always has to start easy, doesn’t it? Is <i>Hellraiser</i> your favorite horror movie?”</p>
<p>Frank hesitates. It was an easy question— almost ridiculously so. Ghostface swishes the knife, his cue to answer. He was overthinking this. There was no way this could be a trick question, not so early on. “Yes.”</p>
<p>“Good!” He flips the knife towards Julie. “And is yours <i>Poltergeist?”</i></p>
<p>“Yes,” Julie answers without a single hesitation.</p>
<p>“Quick answer. I like that. Do you know they say that trilogy is cursed? Shame those actresses died so young, but I guess when death wants you— it’ll have you. No matter what.” Frank can hear the clear sneer in his words.</p>
<p>Julie gives him a hard stare. “I don’t believe in curses.”</p>
<p>“That’s because you’re smart,” Ghostface praises, “A lot smarter than the rest of this town.” A jab of jealousy hits the dropout hard, but he’s quick to shove down the stupid, irrational feeling. The blonde high schooler, however, scoffs and turns away from him, not at all impressed by his words. </p>
<p>The killer points the knife at Frank once more. “Do you like working at the gas station?”</p>
<p>“No,” Frank is faster to answer this time. As per last round, the killer gives Julie her own variant of the question, who gives the same response. It occurred to him then that he’s only asked about her job once or twice— she had been working her ass off there almost every single day, so he had figured that she had enjoyed it. <i>Shit.</i> Now wasn’t the time to be feeling shitty over it— he could apologize to her later.</p>
<p>“Do you like your friends?” Ghostface asks him.</p>
<p>“Yes.” There is no hesitation in his words, but he keeps his guard up. The killer could easily accuse him of lying, bring up the fact that they were nothing more than toys, but he does nothing of the sort. Instead, he asks Julie the same question and she replies the same way, clearly bored. He gives an approving nod of his head.</p>
<p>The questions continue in their dull normalcy— ranging from their favorite activities to simple ones about their home life. The dropout wishes he could be anywhere but here. The questions were absolutely boring, but he could not shake the trepidation that it was all meant to lure the two of them into a false sense of security. He knew Ghostie way too well to think that he didn’t have something up his sleeve.</p>
<p>Finally, after much more back and forth, the killer hums. “Man, this is such an intense game isn’t it?” As per usual, he was given no response, so he loudly taps the knife against the wood: “I <i>said</i> this is an intense game, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>“Incredibly,” Frank mutters.</p>
<p>“Good boy!” Ghostface says approvingly, “How about this? We’ll spice this up with a little ‘bonus’ round. In this round, I’ll ask you a series of questions instead of just one at a time. You’ll have several chances to win at once! Doesn’t that sound good?”</p>
<p>Julie shifts slightly in her seat and Frank notices that her bonds are a lot looser than they were. He makes sure to keep his face expressionless so as to not show his relief. “Fine. Let’s just hurry up.”</p>
<p>“Why?” Ghostface asks her. “Do you have places to be? Because you can easily tell a lie and get out of here, you know.” She responds with a glare.</p>
<p>“Now, I think… Frank! How about we start with you?”</p>
<p><i>Of course.</i> “Whatever.”</p>
<p>“That’s the spirit! Were you dating Jed Olsen?” Ghostface purrs.</p>
<p>Frank smirks at the question. So that was his big ploy? He supposes that the killer wouldn’t have known he already told the Legion— and there’s no shock on Julie’s face when he replies: “Yes.”</p>
<p>“How about… Danny Johnson?” Ghostface asks innocently. Frank feels like his stomach has just been weighed down by rocks and the smirk is quick to fade. “Were you dating him?”</p>
<p>“...Yes,” Frank admits.</p>
<p>Julie frowns at that, giving her best friend a puzzled look. “You were dating <i>two</i> guys?”</p>
<p>“And what about Ghostface?”</p>
<p>The world becomes silent and Frank can do nothing but blankly look at the white mask. Its expression never changes, but it has become much more sinister. It felt like the furniture had grown eyes: all of them pointedly staring at the dropout. … He should lie here.</p>
<p>“Were you dating Ghostface?” The killer presses again.</p>
<p>He could lie so easily. Just say no. He forces himself to turn to Julie— whose eyes were cold and judgmental. Despite what she would think of him after, he <i>couldn’t</i> lie. He couldn’t endanger her.</p>
<p>“Yes,” he whispers.</p>
<p><i>“What the fuck?”</i> Julie exclaims in disgust and he trips over his words as he tries to defend himself:</p>
<p>“I was going to tell you, I wanted to—”</p>
<p>“Next question!” Ghostface interrupts, cheerily, to the dropout’s sheer dismay. Frank is sweating; he can feel each cold bead as it runs down his back. He shouldn’t have to be playing this <i>stupid</i> game. Julie scowls and has turned her head to the side— looking at neither the killer nor Frank. He wants to reach out to her, he <i>needs to</i> explain—</p>
<p>“Did you kill Fink?”</p>
<p>“Yes!” Frank exclaims, hoping that would be the end of the killer’s barrage, but the man breezily goes on:</p>
<p>“And is Fink the only person you’ve killed?”</p>
<p>Frank cringes. His heart is racing and his mind has begun its panic: begging him to lie, to end this stupid game, run away. He can’t go anywhere. He’s trapped. The killer had expertly blocked off his king, calling for checkmate in a game of chess Frank wasn’t even aware they were playing. He has to think of Julie, he <i>has</i> to think of Julie. Julie, who couldn’t even bear to look at him.</p>
<p>“I…” God, if he can only tell her—</p>
<p>Ghostface makes a noise that imitates a game show buzzer. “Yes or no answers only!”</p>
<p>He squeezes his eyes shut. “N-no.”</p>
<p>She doesn’t even say anything this time around. When he blinks open his eyes, her own have closed, the anger and hurt blatant on her features. A sudden rage fills him— why was <i>she</i> upset? What did any of them matter to her? It wasn’t as if he broke his promise— she made him swear he wasn’t Ghostface and <i>he wasn’t.</i> For a second, he pictures himself pouncing on her— grabbing the knife and killing her over and over and the thought makes him want to vomit.</p>
<p>What the <i>fuck</i> was wrong with him?</p>
<p>“Very good, Frankie!” The killer snaps him out of his dark thoughts. “It’s good to be open and honest with the world around you. Though, I suppose, in this case, it doesn’t <i>really</i> move the game along...” Ghostface trails off, thinking, before he went: “Did you commit these murders alone?”</p>
<p>Frank’s shoulders sag in defeat and he glances down at his feet. “No.”</p>
<p><i>“So you were working with Ghostface?”</i> She blurts out as the dots connect, whirling her head to look at him. “You fucking <i>murdered</i> people with a serial killer?”</p>
<p>“Well, I usually don’t like people asking their own questions, but alright. Frank? You should answer your closest friend, your dear cohort.”</p>
<p>Frank is silent.</p>
<p>Julie lets out a sharp laugh of cold disbelief. <i>“Wow.</i> Holy shit.”</p>
<p>“Now, now,” Ghostface chides, “You have to wait for Frank’s answer. Come on. A simple yes or no.”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Frank snaps as he glares at the killer. “But you already fucking knew that. So what’s the point of us beating around the fucking bush?” He turns to Julie, desperate for her to understand. “Jed Olsen was Ghostface, okay? I wanted to stop, I didn’t—”</p>
<p>“Woah!” Ghostface interrupts with a laugh, holding the hand closest to Frank out flat. “Hang on, we don’t need an entire exposition. It’s just a one-word answer.”</p>
<p>He wants to scream out “fuck you”, but the killer was holding all the cards now— if he offended him, nothing was stopping him from slitting Julie’s throat. Shaking now from the rage he can’t unleash, he swallows down a painful lump.</p>
<p>“How about we switch it over to you?” Ghostface asks Julie with the same lighthearted air, as if the dropout’s outburst never happened. “After all, we can’t let Frank have all the fun.”</p>
<p>“Fine,” she replies, curtly.</p>
<p>“Did you kill Fink?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And did you enjoy it?” The killer tilts his head ever-so-slightly. </p>
<p>Julie holds her head high. “Yeah. I did.”</p>
<p>Though she had confessed this to him, it still felt unnatural to Frank that there had been a killer lurking beneath her all along. It reminds him of Danny in a way— both their lives had been completely normal from the start, yet neither of them batted an eye over having committed a murder. Ghostface hums.</p>
<p>“Would you kill again?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p><i>“Are you sure?”</i> Ghostface asks, tauntingly, “I know you still get the urge— watching someone’s life fade, feeling the warmth of fresh blood on you. Isn’t the high worth it?”</p>
<p>Her eyelids have drooped, making her eyes look like mere slits. “No. Because I’m not a fucking psycho.” Her words are pointed and make Frank wince.</p>
<p>Ghostface laughs at that. “Fair enough.” He leans forward a bit in his chair, letting the rear legs of it rise. “Alright. Last question.” His voice returns to the monotone: </p>
<p>“Do you have a knife on you?”</p>
<p>Julie blinks, her eyes becoming wide and out of habit, she glances at Frank. He knew she was thinking the same thing he was: <i>when had the killer noticed?</i> She does not respond, but unlike with Frank, Ghostface does not push her. He waits, patiently, returning his chair to its original position. The dropout meets her eyes and he notices that they have been reignited with something that he can not read.</p>
<p>Quietly, but with no tremble in her words, she replies: “No.”</p>
<p>Frank can only stare at her in sheer bewilderment. He seemed to be the only one caught off-guard, as nothing about the serial killer’s body language gave off any type of surprise. <i>“Jules—”</i> He manages to start, but when Ghostface rises out of his seat, he finds his mouth clamps together of its own accord. The killer seems to glide as he walks, each step of his quiet against the carpet.</p>
<p>“Ding, ding, ding! It looks like we have a winner!” </p>
<p>Despite the cheer, the entire atmosphere of the room had been sucked dry. Frank felt as if he could no longer breathe— like he was being smothered by nothing more than the tension in the air. Was <i>this</i> his punishment? He can’t take his eyes off of Julie, the ache of her betrayal an unbearable pain he can’t begin to describe. For her part, she was still sitting straight— her face was flat and didn’t show any type of emotion. She had always been kind of a hardass, but even this was unlike her. She would never treat one of her own like this.</p>
<p>Ghostface goes up behind her and Frank grows rigid, waiting for the twist ending— for him to kill her for lying— but it doesn’t happen. Instead, the killer hums. “The knife, please.”</p>
<p>Julie growls and shifts around for a moment before she’s able to hand it to him. He lifts it, waves it so Frank can see it. “It’s not very nice to give away your gifts,” the killer criticizes, before he slides it down the top of the dresser— it lands only a few inches away from Frank. The dropout stares at it— it was so close, so <i>tantalizingly close.</i> Due to his restraints, there was no way for him to snatch it.</p>
<p>The serial killer murmurs something in Julie’s ear, something that makes her face fall, before he goes to cut her bonds. Frank guesses it was probably a threat, as the senior doesn’t make any attempt to attack the older man as he frees her. She rubs at her wrists, which were red and raw from having attempted to escape them.</p>
<p>“Well?” Ghostface says, keeping his mask pointed towards her, as he goes over to Frank. The dropout tries to make himself small as a hand is placed on his shoulder, but there is nowhere for him to go. “You’re free to leave.”</p>
<p>Frank can’t look away as Julie rises and begins to walk towards the front door. She doesn’t look back. The jagged teeth of the knife are placed against his skull tattoo, and Ghostface calls after her: “Just know, the cops won’t be able to make it in time. He’ll be dead and I’ll be gone.”</p>
<p>She stills, just for a moment. “Do what you want,” she replies as she puts her hand on the brass handle. Ghostface chuckles, turning to face him.</p>
<p>“I knew I always liked her,” he croons. The knife grazes his skin, so sharp that droplets of blood begin to trickle out. </p>
<p>His mind flashes to an empty funeral.</p>
<p>Is it as soon as the killer looks away that Julie throws her head over her shoulder, mouthing her words so quickly Frank almost couldn’t read them: <i>“Distract him.”</i></p>
<p>Hope swells in his chest— <i>holy shit.</i> He knew that Julie wouldn’t have left him behind. There was no more having to hide what his former relationship was with the killer, so he could use it to his full advantage. Softly, so soft that he knows only Ghostie can hear it, he asks: “Are you really going to kill me?” </p>
<p>Julie opens the door, then after a few seconds, closes it shut. The killer never takes his mask off Frank. The dropout forces himself to keep his dark brown eyes on the black mesh, on the dark eyes behind it.</p>
<p>“Sorry baby,” Ghostface answers in a playful lament, “I gave you a million chances to lie. This game was so easy for you to win. But you failed.” He gives a ‘tsk-tsk’ as he strokes the teenager’s cheek. “And I can’t be unfair, now can I?”</p>
<p>“No,” Frank breathes, refusing to lean into the gentle touch, “I guess you can’t.”</p>
<p>He can hear the smile in the killer’s voice as he takes back his knife. “Attaboy.” With that, the man rears back, raising the weapon to strike down the dropout. Frank’s hands curl into fists instinctively, waiting for the steel to meet his flesh, but Ghostface— Ghostface <i>hesitates.</i></p>
<p>And that’s when Julie crashes the bedside lamp against the back of the man’s head.</p>
<p>In most horror movies, the monster would just brush off such an attack— whirling around to face the would-be hero and killing them instead. But Ghostface wasn’t a movie monster. The lamp was made of heavy steel, enough for anyone to fall unconscious. And that’s exactly what happens. The killer slumps unceremoniously to the ground, his knife clattering harmlessly against the chair. It barely misses Frank.</p>
<p>Julie drops the lamp, which lands with a loud clang, and scrambles off the killer’s chair. Frank stares down at the fallen body and he can’t stop his brain from replaying the earlier scene. Ghostface had hesitated. <i>Danny</i> had hesitated. He’s forced out of his mind’s mantra when Julie snaps her fingers in front of his face. </p>
<p>“Hey. Focus.”</p>
<p>She has gone for the man’s knife, beginning to cut through the ropes. “Thank you,” Frank tells her, gratefully, when his wrists are no longer bound by their constraints.</p>
<p>Julie is quiet for a second as she keeps working. When she does speak, her tone is low and frigid: “I just didn’t want anyone else to die. But after this, you <i>better not</i> come near me or <i>my</i> friends ever again.”</p>
<p>Frank says nothing as she bends down, cuts the rope from his feet. It is only until they fall that he glances up at her, watching as she rises. “What?” He asks, hoping that he misheard.</p>
<p>“Did you seriously think I was just going to <i>fucking</i> turn the other cheek? Forgive you for lying and terrorizing this shitty little town because <i>you</i> couldn’t control yourself?” Julie spits.</p>
<p>Oh.</p>
<p>She meets his brown eyes, but he does not recognize her— no longer is she his best friend, no. She is a complete stranger to him. And perhaps, she had always been a stranger to him, really. All this time, he had thought he had found this family who would love and accept him— but it’d been a lie. They had never cared about him— No.</p>
<p>
  <i>No.</i>
</p>
<p>The truth was that Frank Morrison brought this upon himself.</p>
<p>He had clung so closely to these three teenagers, hoping that by some miracle it’d keep him normal. But was he ever normal? Frank glances to the mirror and sees himself— sees who he’s always been. Inhuman. Nothing more than a dark void masquerading as a human. There is nothing to him but emptiness. A hollow feeling that only grew, only threatened to consume him whole. </p>
<p>Julie takes his knife from the dresser, pocketing it. His eyes follow this motion. “I’m not going to tell you to turn yourself in,” she says in the softest manner he’s ever heard from her, “But you know what you did wasn’t right.”</p>
<p>And he finds himself saying: “I know, I know.”</p>
<p>She forces a small sad smile, perhaps her attempt to try to lift his spirits or say their goodbyes, but he does not return it. He stands and she moves to the phone to test it. It’s funny, watching her move, it’s like he’s watching a videotape that’s been rewound too many times. It’s grainy, it jumps where it shouldn’t. One second she’s going towards the phone and the next she’s holding the cut cord.</p>
<p>“We’ll have to…” She’s telling him, but Frank doesn’t catch all of it.</p>
<p>Ghostface laughs in a quiet wheeze from the floor and the dropout looks down at him listlessly, the mask only a few inches away from his feet. The killer rolls over on his back. “Do you see now?” The killer whispers, as if it hurts to talk, “Baby, there was never anyone else.”</p>
<p>“We’re two of a kind,” Frank murmurs and he swears he can hear the smile in the killer’s voice.</p>
<p>“Attaboy.”</p>
<p>The killer pulls himself up and Frank neither extends a hand nor keeps him down. “How about,” The older man seems to be just a dark shroud that wraps himself around the dropout, nothing more than a shadow. He purrs in his ear: “We get out of here? Like we <i>always</i> wanted to?”</p>
<p>He squeezes his eyes shut. “Not her. <i>Anyone but her.”</i></p>
<p>“Why?” Ghostface asks, placing a gloved hand firmly on his wrist. Frank hisses out in pain, still hurt from the rope burns. “Who is she?”</p>
<p>Frank can’t answer him. The blonde teenager seems to notice they’re staring at her and turns around, her eyes sharp and narrow. “What?” She demands, but when he doesn’t answer, she sighs tiredly. “Let’s just get out of here, okay?”</p>
<p>“I think,” Ghostface continues, as she pushes past the two of them, “She’s taken up enough of our screentime. Don’t you?”</p>
<p>
  <i>“I’m scared.”</i>
</p>
<p>The teenager turns back. “Frank?”</p>
<p>
  <i>How did she know his name?</i>
</p>
<p>“You don’t have to be,” Ghostface kindly reassures him. The two watch as the blonde grips the serial killer’s knife just a little tighter. “I’ll help you.”</p>
<p>The serial killer moves for Frank then, as if the dropout is nothing more than a puppet on strings. They are in sync, in complete unison— performing a dance rather than a murder. The girl slashes at them, her face contorted into a snarl and her eyes as wild as a wolf’s. Frank shoves her against the door and is able to wrestle the killer’s knife out of her hand. Ghostface’s praise is in his ear and he is invincible.</p>
<p>She is not like any of their previous victims— she attacks the two of them without any hint of mercy, using Frank’s knife. He feels the knife dig into his abdomen and he howls, though in place of pain there is only adrenaline. He retaliates, trying to slash at her neck but she’s able to move aside, her shoulder taking the brunt of it. It is an incredible high, one he missed so strongly and he can’t believe he ever let go of. The fight moves from the door, past the killer’s chair— which she throws and Frank dodges.</p>
<p>“Where are you going to go?” Ghostface taunts, as they step in front of her once more. She and Frank both are breathing heavily from exhaustion, but the serial killer seemed just fine. Her eyes dart to the two doorways— one leads to the kitchen, one to the bathroom, and none to the outside world. “This is it. This is the end of the road.”</p>
<p>
  <i>“Fuck you!”</i>
</p>
<p>Ghostface laughs harshly, still grasping Frank’s wrist. “Good final line.” They knock her down to the ground by slamming the hilt of the knife into her cheek. She scrambles to try to get up, but they grab her by her ankle. She kicks Frank roughly in the face and he releases her, wiping his bloodied nose as she tries to race her way to the exit.</p>
<p>She’s fast, but the two killers have had their fair share of runners.</p>
<p>They grab her savagely by the shoulder and Ghostface drives the knife into her spine. The teenager screams— Frank thinks she screams out for help— but it doesn’t matter. They spin her around and she’s coughing up blood and he locks eyes with her. She grasps onto his forearms to steady herself, and almost doesn’t hear her: “I think you were right. There <i>is</i> a darkness here.”</p>
<p>Frank can no longer control himself then, feels Ghostface’s hands leave him. He stabs her. He stabs her over and over and over again. It’s a song he’s heard before, but god damn he loves the melody. He slaps his hand over her mouth to keep her noises muffled, keeps driving in the knife until it hits bone.</p>
<p>It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay because it’s just a stranger and who cares? Frank was better than <i>all</i> of the sheep of Ormond, all of the pathetic little background characters. None of them had ever mattered! Not Fink, or the diner girl, or the Sullivans, or McNamara, nor Gage— and certainly not his newest kill. <i>Why had he been so afraid?! THIS IS WHAT HE WAS MADE FOR.</i> There is something whispering in his mind and he isn’t quite sure it’s Ghostface, but still, he listens to it— listens as it tells him to keep going until she’s limp in his arms and she’s bled all over him and the carpet.</p>
<p>The sunlight has begun to fade when Danny’s eyes snap open. His mind is quick to remind him of the events that had taken place before he had gotten knocked out. Sheer rage ignites his blood and he’s quick to push himself up. It was a small town. The little traitor couldn’t have gone too far. When he catches Frank, he’d tie him up and force him to watch as all his little friends died to his knife— <i>then he’d skin the fucking bastard alive.</i> Piece by fucking piece.</p>
<p>He readjusts his mask. Frank had failed— a miscalculation on his part, but problems like these had quite the simple solution. Danny shouldn’t have hesitated, but there had been something so entrancing about the conflicted defiance in the dropout’s dark brown eyes. Danny pats himself down, but of course, the little shits had taken his knife. The light of the setting sun entered through the window, the curtain having been drawn back. He takes in his surroundings, his anger dissipating in an instant.</p>
<p>Danny watches, it’s what he does— watch people. The dropout on his knees, head bent. Next to him is the body of one Julie Kostenko. For the first time in a very long time, Danny feels nothing but confusion. For a man that liked to hold all the cards, who liked to plan his moves in advance, that was a very terrifying feeling to have. He approaches the teenager slowly, not wanting to startle the dropout. Frank doesn’t even seem to notice his presence.</p>
<p>Even when he is standing over Frank, the dropout doesn’t move. Danny’s intrigued— he was right after all, it seemed. He’s met so many different people and yet none had ever managed to surprise him quite like Frank. He pushes his mask to the side: it was his job to investigate, not Ghostface’s. Something tells him that the younger killer wouldn’t be very pleased to see the plastic mask anyway.</p>
<p>“Oh, Frank.”</p>
<p>The dropout turns his head up to him, his face stained with drying blood and tears. Danny notices he’s holding his side with his hand, breathing roughly. He bends down to the teenager’s eye-level. “Sweet boy, what did you do?”</p>
<p>“I… I…” Frank stammers, but his fear is quick to become hostility. <i>“You</i> told me to do it.” He staggers to his feet and Danny gets a better look at his wound— his hand was soaked red. That needed to be taken care of right away: there was no way that the teenager wasn’t delirious from his own blood loss. </p>
<p><i>“I</i> told you to do it?” Danny steps closer to him, but it only makes Frank take a step back. He’s reminded of a wounded stray he drove past once in Roseville. The teenager reveals what was in his other hand— the serial killer’s knife, which he shoves in front of him.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Don’t fucking come any closer!”</i>
</p>
<p>Danny stops in his tracks, though he can’t say he’s afraid of being stabbed. He gives a dark chuckle. “As much as I’d love to take credit for… whatever this is.” He gestures nonchalantly towards the body. “I can’t. This one was all <i>you,</i> baby boy.”</p>
<p>Frank laughs in disbelief, the knife trembling in his hand. “Me? I would <i>never</i> hurt Julie. I’m not like you! I’m not some fucking unfeeling machine.”</p>
<p>“Oh? Is that how little you think of me?” Danny asks, but there’s no hint of hurt or offense in his words. It’s returned to that monotone and Frank tightens his grip around the hilt.</p>
<p>“No, no!” Frank snarls, “I don’t <i>think it.</i> I know it. You don’t give a shit about anything but yourself!” The dropout takes one large step forward, the tip of the blade now meeting the Adam’s apple of the serial killer. Danny does not attempt to move away. </p>
<p>“But you and I both know that isn’t true, is it?”</p>
<p>Rage flashes in the teenager’s eyes. <i>“Fuck you! </i> I’m tired of your bullshit. You…” Danny chuckles as the knife continues to shake, not even close to grazing his flesh. “You fucker! <i>You fucking asshole!</i> Ever since you came into my life, you’ve done nothing but made a mess of it!”</p>
<p>“Now—”</p>
<p><i>“SHUT UP!”</i> Frank roars and Danny tilts his head upwards, too interested in the outburst to feel fury for the transgression. His entire body is heaving now, his hand pressing even harder against his side. “You’re going to fucking listen to <i>me</i> for once. You’ve never once fucking listened to me, goddamn it! You’ve fucked me over, you’ve <i>fucked</i> me. I’m ruined! I’m…” Frank trails off, laughing wildly as fresh tears spring into his eyes. “I’m not even <i>human</i> anymore, am I? What did you do to me? What did you turn me into?”</p>
<p>Danny whistles lowly and Frank shoves the knife closer at his reaction. This time the tip nicks him. The serial killer gently takes the teenager’s hand in his own and Frank tenses. Even with this display, it was clear who was still in power. “So do it,” he whispers as he steadies the knife, “Kill me if you hate me that much. Kill me like you killed your dear Julie.”</p>
<p>Frank stays unmoving, the scowl still on his face. The serial killer chuckles.</p>
<p>“You can’t do it though, can you?”</p>
<p>The dropout says nothing.</p>
<p>“You’re dying, Frank.” Danny tells him simply, “You need to take care of that wound.”</p>
<p>“I don’t care,” Frank replies, as he turns away from Danny to go back to Julie. The serial killer lets his hand drop. “It doesn’t matter.”</p>
<p>“It matters to me.” </p>
<p>Danny <i>thinks</i> he means it. He certainly doesn’t want the teenager to drop dead so abruptly just when he’s shown how truly fascinating he could be. The dropout glances at him, sullenly, before he shakes his head.</p>
<p>“Husks,” Frank says slowly, “Darkness in an empty shell. That’s all we are. We feel nothing, we are nothing.”</p>
<p>The serial killer gives him a long look, his brows furrowing. “What the <i>fuck</i> are you talking about?”</p>
<p>“It’s like you told me,” Frank replies and Danny <i>definitely</i> knows the blood loss is getting to the teenager. “Don’t you see it?” He’s looking in the standing mirror now and Danny takes a second before he steps up behind him. The dropout lets the knife go and it lands near Julie’s splayed hair. His hand flies to his face, his tone giving away his exhaustion: “There’s nothing there, just a void...”</p>
<p>Danny observes the mirror. There are two people in the reflection: a tired teenager drenched in blood and a man who’s struggling to see what his partner is trying to show him.  “Frank,” he remarks, “You have to stop running.”</p>
<p>This seems to snap the teenager out of whatever trance he was in. “Huh?”</p>
<p>“You keep hiding underneath all these different masks. Even now, you’re trying to hide— I don’t even think you realize it.” The killer delicately puts his hands on either side of the teenager’s head, keeping him focused on the mirror. “You are you. You are Frank Morrison. This is who you are. You aren’t an empty shell. You are human. Just like me. Just like everyone else.”</p>
<p>Frank continues to stare at himself.</p>
<p>“But if you ask me,” Danny leans forward, resting his chin on his shoulder, murmuring: “It’s even scarier that you’re just a person. There’s nothing to hide behind. There is no darkness making you do the things you’ve done. You did all of this just because you wanted to.” He presses his lips against the teenager’s neck. “Because you were bored.”</p>
<p>In the mirror, Frank no longer sees a black scribble. He is staring into dark hollow eyes, as empty as the lodge. It takes him a moment to place them as his own. There had never been a mask to pull off and Danny had known that from the start. His mind drifts to their conversation on the roof, right after he had gotten into a fight with his friends.</p>
<p>
  <i>“I won’t put you into a box, Frank.”</i>
</p>
<p>Danny had never needed to. In truth, he had been what Danny had wanted all along. All the serial killer had to do was give him a push in the right direction. Frank swallows. He could not lie to himself anymore— the desire to kill had always been inside him. Perhaps he had just been born with it, maybe it sprang up as a way to combat the ugliness of the world around him. </p>
<p>“Let me fix you.” Danny’s hand is over his own and for the first time, there is no adrenaline. There is no hollow feeling. There is just pain. Sheer agonizing pain. Once more, his body belonged to him. Frank allows the killer to lead him to the bed, to pull up the turtleneck. He grabs what the dropout can only assume is a first-aid kit from one of the bedside dressers.</p>
<p>“Do you still want to kill me?” Frank presses gingerly, staring up at the ceiling light, as the killer takes out a thread and needle. Danny wordlessly shakes his head, his attention now on sterilizing the wound. Under the killer’s gentle and expert care, the large wound is cleaned and stitched up. Though Frank still feels a bit dizzy, Danny tells him the pain will pass. All things will pass. He would survive.</p>
<p>“It’s going to leave a scar,” Danny warns as he looks over his handiwork.</p>
<p>“That’s okay.”</p>
<p>It would serve to tell the story of a victim and a murder.</p>
<p>By the time Frank has showered and changed, Danny has tidied up the motel room as best he could. The serial killer comes over to him, adjusting the lapels on his varsity jacket. When the dropout comments over the affair of the room, the man shrugs.</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter,” the man informs him, “We’ll be long gone before either of us are suspects.” He leads Frank outside, the moon high in the sky. Though most of its face showed, part of it was still shrouded in the shadow of the night. The dropout is surprised to see his car— all revved up and ready to go.</p>
<p>“I packed for you,” Danny admits.</p>
<p>“Did you know?” Frank asks, “That’d I’d go with you?”</p>
<p>An oddly contemplative look spreads across the killer’s face. “No.”</p>
<p>Danny is quick to enter the car, but Frank lingers. He turns around, one last time, staring into the darkness of the room. The manager would probably discover Julie’s body tomorrow, by the latest. Ormond would mourn the fact that one of their brightest minds was murdered in such a vicious manner. Joey and Susie would cry over her for weeks, months even. Maybe they’d even wonder where Frank had gone. He hopes they will.</p>
<p>Frank can’t help but wonder if Ormond is cursed. It had its claws in its citizens, forcing them to stay here for all eternity. But the dropout wasn’t from this place and whatever entity was grasping onto the sleepy mountain town would not take him. He had found his freedom, there were no more ties to hold him down. Danny calls out to him, sticking his head out the window. </p>
<p>Frank follows after him, slipping into the passenger seat. A small smile forms on his face when he sees his golden elephant placed on top of the dashboard. He did not know what would await him with Danny— but he was ready to leave now.</p>
<p>Maybe he had always been ready.</p>
<p>They drive off in silence. “Now, let’s see…” Danny fiddles with a few of the tapes, only glancing down once or twice to see which one he’s selecting. Frank allows him to pick whichever one he wants, too fixated on watching as Ormond becomes smaller and smaller in the distance.</p>
<p>The town seems to become engulfed by the darkness of the night.</p>
<p>Joey and Susie <i>would</i> be okay, right? They would be. They had to be.</p>
<p>It is the sound that begins to play that stirs his movements— synthesizers that only serve to make his stomach roll with an oncoming sickness. He reaches instinctively for the next track button, but Danny is faster. He’s always faster.</p>
<p>The man takes his hand in his own, pulls it up to his lips, and presses a soft kiss onto his knuckles. “Come on, baby,” he purrs, “Everyone likes Africa.”</p>
<p>Frank stares into those half-lidded grey eyes that seem to gleam with mischief. He swallows thickly, takes back his hand, not wanting the other man to see just how the familiarity of those words pained him. He instead returns to the safety of the window, watching as they pass the forest that hid Ormond from the rest of the world.</p>
<p>The song continues to play, though Frank only vaguely hears it. He is back at the motel, back to Julie and he’s holding her hand now. Days from now, maybe regret would sink in. But Frank had made his decision— there was no going back now.</p>
<p>Danny glances over at the teenager, perhaps unsure why he’s suddenly upset, and begins to sing along: “It’s gonna take a lot to drag me away from you.”</p>
<p>Frank slowly glances back, catching Danny’s easy-going smile. The sleazy smile of the devil. He says nothing as Danny continues: “There’s nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do.” With this, he tilts his head back, that smile growing wider and wider and Frank thinks— unnatural.</p>
<p>“I bless the rains down in Africa,” he half-sings in a content sigh.</p>
<p>Frank presses his forehead against the glass. His lips part without him thinking and softly, he sings:</p>
<p>“Gonna take some time to do the things we never had.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <span class="noted">to everyone who clicked on this fic, who took the time to read it, who left a kudos, who commented and theorized, who drew fanart, who made playlists, who translated this behemoth into another language, who were inspired to write their own fics— i sincerely thank you from the bottom of my heart. it was your support that kept my motivation strong. this fic is just as much yours as it is mine. 💖</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">to megidola and bwoo, my dear beta readers, we did it! you guys deserve a nice long rest 💕 your hard work in helping me edit and patience in listening to my ramblings is not lost on me. i am eternally grateful to you two for taking this journey with me— there’s no one else i would have wanted by my side. your dedication means more to me than you’ll ever know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">honestly, this is all so bittersweet. i’ve never written anything on this grand of a scale. i always thought it’d be impossible for me. <i>we are two of a kind</i> was a labor of love— i put so much time and effort into this fic, just because this ship deserved it. i can only hope i did it justice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">julie’s death was planned since chapter two— she was the closest to frank, and i knew she would not last in a world where ghostface was making all the rules. however, i honestly think had frank gone with him as originally planned, danny would have left the other members alone.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">i know a lot of people had hoped at the end of this, our two killers would leave ormond together. so. is this a “good” ending? a “bad” one? i think that’s something you ultimately have to decide for yourself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted">there’s so much more i wish to say and i have so many of my own thoughts, but sadly, all things must come to a close. frank and danny and the rest of our cast will forever be a part of me, that’s for sure. though it hurts to say “the end”, i can only hope that the finale was to your liking, after all, we’ve been leading up to it since the very beginning:</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span class="noted"><a href="https://twitter.com/fragileao3">twt.</a> / <a href="https://writetxt.tumblr.com/">tmblr.</a></span>
</p>
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